"I found a place where you can go," Nevada said.
"Where?"
"Las Vegas."
"Las Vegas? There's hardly a more public place in the world. Besides, the town swarms with federal agents, all kinds."
"Don't call an idea dumb before you even heard it," said Nevada. "I'm goin' with ya to set things up. The first thing we've gotta do is fly that conspicuous airplane out of here. There's a private field in Arizona where they'll shove it into a hangar for us. Then we'll drive to Vegas. After dark. Tonight. This is gonna cost you some money. You carryin' any?"
"Not much."
"I'll take care of things till you get some funds transferred."
"Where'm I gonna be living, Nevada?"
"Did you ever hear of a casino-hotel called The Seven Voyages?"
"Of course."
Nevada nodded curtly. "Well, that's where you're gonna be livin'. You got the whole top floor, and nobody but nobody is gonna know you're there."
"How'd you arrange that?"
"Over the years, a man makes friends," said Nevada.
4
They hand-cranked a primitive pump to transfer aviation gas from drums into the wing tanks on the Cessna. As Jonas shoved in the throttles and the airplane roared down the short runway and lifted off, a pair of black cars turned in at the gate and drove toward the house.
"We played that one a little too close," Nevada remarked. "If I was flyin' this airplane, I'd turn like we was headin' east. I'd wanta be well out of sight of those fellers before I turned the right way."
Jonas did exactly that. He did not turn south until he was east of the Utah state line, after which he flew over the Grand Canyon, then turned west. He navigated the way he'd done in the old days, before technical types mounted all kinds of radio-navigation equipment in airplanes. He didn't even refer to his charts but constantly compared what he saw on the ground to what he saw on state highway maps. The little private airport was where Nevada's friend had told him it was: eighteen miles northeast of Dolan Springs and a mile east of a narrow rural highway. He overflew once to have a look at the runway and windsock, then throttled back in a left-hand pattern and touched down just over the threshold, leaving himself plenty of room to bleed off speed and come to a stop before the end of the runway.
A large but rusting and ramshackle corrugated-steel building sat alongside the runway. Jonas and Nevada had hardly stepped down from the Cessna when a tractor backed up to it and towed it inside the building. The tractor guided it into place in a row of expensive twin-engine private planes. Powerful electric motors pulled the big doors shut.
Jonas and Nevada walked into the line shack, where Jonas asked the man on duty to top off the tanks on the Cessna.
"Okay, Mr. Cord. Nice-lookin' airplane. We'll take good care of it. We've got a car waiting for you. Understand you don't want to leave for a while. The house at the end of the ramp is a private club for owners and pilots."
Jonas nodded. "Fine. We'll pay it a visit."
5
Jonas and Nevada did not want to drive into Las Vegas until after sunset, when they would be far less likely to be recognized by chance. They knew the town. Both of them had been there before, often.
Jonas in fact had a business connection with the city. It resulted from the peculiar history of the State of Nevada and of Las Vegas.
The Nevada legislature had legalized casino gambling in 1931, as a measure to pump up the state's Depression-stricken economy. A few hotels and casino-hotels opened, but the business was modest. The problem was Las Vegas was too remote. Los Angeles, the nearest city of any consequence, was three hundred miles away, a daylong drive in daunting desert heat in cars that were not air-conditioned, or a bumpy, adventurous two-and-a-half-hour flight over deserts and mountains. San Francisco was six hundred miles away, the East Coast as remote as China.
The casino-hotels operated like dude ranches, on a howdy-pardner basis with rustic accommodations and fare and no entertainment but the gambling. Sophisticated nightclubs operated in Los Angeles, and a few enterprising men developed the idea that Las Vegas should offer a combination of casino gambling, first-class accommodations, and top-notch entertainment.
The problem was, banks were reluctant to lend money to build casino-hotels. One Benjamin Siegel, better known to the world as Bugsy Siegel, solved that problem. With money of his own from his bookmaking operations in California, plus money from such investors as Meyer Lansky and Moe Greenbaum, Bugsy built the Flamingo. It opened on December 26, 1946, with Jimmy Durante and the Xavier Cugat band on the stage.
The Flamingo made no profit with the flamboyant Bugsy managing. Besides, he had a furious temper and more than once attacked and injured men who called him Bugsy — in full view of casino clientele. A person or persons unknown — who would permanently remain unknown — solved the Bugsy problem on June 20, 1947, by shooting him in the head with a 30-caliber rifle as he lounged on a chintz-covered sofa in the Beverly Hills home of his girlfriend Virginia Hill. With him out of the way, banks were more willing to lend money to finish the Flamingo and to construct other casino-hotels. The Las Vegas boom was on its way. New hotels went up all along what they began to call The Strip.
A major problem remained. Access. Las Vegas was still difficult to get to.
Jonas Cord had contributed significantly to the solution of that problem. In 1947 he had instituted daily Inter-Continental Airline flights to Las Vegas from Los Angeles and San Francisco. Shortly he made that two daily flights. His airplanes flew at high altitudes, in the smoother, cooler air. They flew faster. On Inter-Continental, Las Vegas was only ninety minutes from Los Angeles. Players could fly to Vegas on an afternoon flight, gamble all night, and return on the morning flight. Hostesses served drinks during the flights.
Airline hostesses had originally all been nurses, expected to hover over passengers and to help them through likely bouts of airsickness. Even after they were no longer nurses, hostesses remained treacly solicitous. The Vegas flights were supposed to be fun, and Jonas asked his hostesses to wear shorts. They were the first airline hostesses in the world to wear shorts. They wore T-shirts too, lettered intercontinental—las vegas. Most flights were full, or nearly so. Other airlines saw the profitability of the market, and in 1948 other flights began to come in from as far away as Denver, Dallas, and Chicago.
Jonas Cord had made a major contribution to the success of Las Vegas, and his name was known there. He had never paid for a room, had never paid for a drink or a meal, on any visit.
He would never have thought of coming to Las Vegas to stay while the enthusiasm for subpoenaing him died down. That had been Nevada's idea. He knew Nevada would have made good arrangements.
6
The little frame house at the end of the ramp was indeed a private club for owners and pilots. They could eat, drink, play one of the dozen or so slot machines in the hall, or visit rooms upstairs with one of the girls who sat in the bar.
"Don't know about you," said Nevada, "but I could stand a nice thick steak."
They took a table by a window overlooking the runway and ramp. The table and chairs were solid maple furniture. The tablecloth and the curtains on the window were of red-and-white-checkered cotton. A candle had been allowed to burn down and cover with wax the neck of a Chianti bottle in a basket. The napkins were paper.
Jonas asked for a bottle of bourbon and two thick steaks, rare, with potatoes.