Miss P. tossed that out as an afterthought.
“You’d have to stand in line. But patience, my friend, perhaps he’ll choke on his dinner, get a bad piece of fish or something. It could happen.” I fought the urge to give her Mona’s double barrel when she was through with it—taking Chef Gregor out of the gene pool would be a huge favor to future generations. With half a mind, I wondered if that fact alone would be sufficient for an acquittal. I pulled my feet back toward me and leaned forward, my hands on my knees. Better not take that chance. “I’ll handle Chef Gregor. But what’s the problem with the pig?”
“She’s depressed.”
* * *
As I strode through the casino, I tried to get my mind around the idea of a depressed pig, but I was struggling with the concept. What did a pig have to be depressed about? Especially a pig ensconced in Bungalow 7, replete with hot-and-cold running foot servants and a twenty-four-hour chef.
Other than having to deal with a swine like Chef Gregor, of course.
The casino echoed the Persian theme of the lobby with palms, darkly hued walls dotted with open flames under glass, and leafy plants in the corners to add warmth. Cloth dyed in an array of bright colors tented above the rows of slot machines and sheltered Delilah’s, a watering hole set in the center of the room on a raised platform. Guests crowded around the bar and the piano as I moved past. Teddie used to play that piano. My heart constricted. Teddie. He’d broken my heart. I’d patched it as best I could, but now he was back, breaking open the thin scab. The pain lingered. I wondered when it would go away, or if it ever would. With him underfoot, my chances at a cure were slim, that much I knew. But what to do?
Why did life always throw me a curveball just when I’d timed the fastball?
From the tables around me, the energy level rose on a crescendo of enthusiasm. Throngs two and three deep circled each game. Collective groans, occasionally offset by cheers, rolled through the room, overriding the thump of the energetic background music. Cocktail waitresses darted in and out of the crowd like hummingbirds testing the nectar of various flowers. The fact that the waitstaff could manage that dance on five-inch heels continually amazed me.
At the far side of the casino, tucked at the end of a long, nondescript corridor that, like the cave leading to Shangri-la, offered not one hint of the riches that lurked beyond: a world of opulence, decadence, and comfort.. The Kasbah, where a guest’s every need would be met promptly and discreetly. Okay, perhaps not their every need. The crazy Russian who demanded we hang gilded swords from the Tsarist era over her bed had been a bit of a challenge, but our resourcefulness prevailed—one of our bellmen knew a guy in L.A. who collected the things. Another guest wanted a bed that Frank Sinatra had slept in. That one had been a bit easier. Vegas’s history wasn’t very old, and her fans were rabid.
With each new request came a new challenge. As the chief problem solver, I got to establish the boundaries of reason.
Although fairly understanding, I drew the line at farm animals . . . for now.
After all, that Hollywood hunk who wanted a goat had left unsatisfied. So some overly inflated culinary bombast wasn’t going to get his pig, either.
Huge double bronze doors folded back, open like an inviting embrace, marked the entrance to the Kasbah. Hieroglyphics of thin figures that looked suspiciously like ancient Egyptians had been pressed into the metal for that ever-important air of authenticity. Potted date palms softened the corners. I half expected to see a camel lurking to the side—I mean, that would sort of fit with the whole animal farm problem I had going on. I glanced around. Alas, no camel. I couldn’t decide whether I was relieved or disappointed, which had me worried.
Every time I stepped into the Kasbah, I felt like Dorothy landing in Oz. Under a domed
“You’d have to stand in line. But patience, my friend, perhaps he’ll choke on his dinner, get a bad piece of fish or something. It could happen.” I fought the urge to give her Mona’s double barrel when she was through with it—taking Chef Gregor out of the gene pool would be a huge favor to future generations. With half a mind, I wondered if that fact alone would be sufficient for an acquittal. I pulled my feet back toward me and leaned forward, my hands on my knees. Better not take that chance. “I’ll handle Chef Gregor. But what’s the problem with the pig?”
“She’s depressed.”
* * *
As I strode through the casino, I tried to get my mind around the idea of a depressed pig, but I was struggling with the concept. What did a pig have to be depressed about? Especially a pig ensconced in Bungalow 7, replete with hot-and-cold running foot servants and a twenty-four-hour chef.
Other than having to deal with a swine like Chef Gregor, of course.
The casino echoed the Persian theme of the lobby with palms, darkly hued walls dotted with open flames under glass, and leafy plants in the corners to add warmth. Cloth dyed in an array of bright colors tented above the rows of slot machines and sheltered Delilah’s, a watering hole set in the center of the room on a raised platform. Guests crowded around the bar and the piano as I moved past. Teddie used to play that piano. My heart constricted. Teddie. He’d broken my heart. I’d patched it as best I could, but now he was back, breaking open the thin scab. The pain lingered. I wondered when it would go away, or if it ever would. With him underfoot, my chances at a cure were slim, that much I knew. But what to do?
Why did life always throw me a curveball just when I’d timed the fastball?
From the tables around me, the energy level rose on a crescendo of enthusiasm. Throngs two and three deep circled each game. Collective groans, occasionally offset by cheers, rolled through the room, overriding the thump of the energetic background music. Cocktail waitresses darted in and out of the crowd like hummingbirds testing the nectar of various flowers. The fact that the waitstaff could manage that dance on five-inch heels continually amazed me.
At the far side of the casino, tucked at the end of a long, nondescript corridor that, like the cave leading to Shangri-la, offered not one hint of the riches that lurked beyond: a world of opulence, decadence, and comfort.. The Kasbah, where a guest’s every need would be met promptly and discreetly. Okay, perhaps not their every need. The crazy Russian who demanded we hang gilded swords from the Tsarist era over her bed had been a bit of a challenge, but our resourcefulness prevailed—one of our bellmen knew a guy in L.A. who collected the things. Another guest wanted a bed that Frank Sinatra had slept in. That one had been a bit easier. Vegas’s history wasn’t very old, and her fans were rabid.
With each new request came a new challenge. As the chief problem solver, I got to establish the boundaries of reason.
Although fairly understanding, I drew the line at farm animals . . . for now.
After all, that Hollywood hunk who wanted a goat had left unsatisfied. So some overly inflated culinary bombast wasn’t going to get his pig, either.
Huge double bronze doors folded back, open like an inviting embrace, marked the entrance to the Kasbah. Hieroglyphics of thin figures that looked suspiciously like ancient Egyptians had been pressed into the metal for that ever-important air of authenticity. Potted date palms softened the corners. I half expected to see a camel lurking to the side—I mean, that would sort of fit with the whole animal farm problem I had going on. I glanced around. Alas, no camel. I couldn’t decide whether I was relieved or disappointed, which had me worried.
Every time I stepped into the Kasbah, I felt like Dorothy landing in Oz. Under a domed
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