"Who's renting me the top floor of The Seven Voyages?" Jonas asked.
"The man who owns it," said Nevada. "His name is Morris Chandler."
"I've heard the name," said Jonas.
"Maurie and I go back a long, long way."
"Longer than the time you've known the Cords?" Jonas asked.
"Longer than that."
Jonas did not pursue the subject further. A part of Nevada's life was a closed book. Jonas knew the broad outlines of it, as his father had known, but Nevada Smith was not the kind of man you cross-examined.
One of the girls from the bar came to the table. She was a short bleached blonde wearing too much red lipstick. She wore a white peasant blouse to show off her oversized breasts.
"You guys bored?" she asked.
"As a matter of fact we're not," said Jonas. "And we've got business to discuss."
"Oh. Well, if business gets boring, I'll be in the bar."
When she was out of earshot, Nevada said, "Maybe you oughta take her up on it. Settle your nerves."
"The bourbon will take care of my nerves. I suppose I should call Monica and tell her where I am."
"Wait till you're in your suite," said Nevada. "Chandler has got the phones hooked up so they relay through an office in San Diego, which makes it impossible for somebody to trace your call and find out where you are. Besides, whatta you wanta bet they got your home phones tapped by now?"
"How am I going to talk to my offices?"
"Trust Chandler. He'll put scramblers on your phones, too. I talked to him about it. I told him you'd have to be able to reach the people that work for you. Hey! You're not the first guy that's holed up on the top floor of The Seven Voyages."
" 'Trust Chandler'?"
"I do."
As they talked, Jonas watched the tractor pull a Twin Beech out of the hangar. Shortly two black cars drove onto the ramp. Five men got out and climbed into the Beech. It taxied to the end of the runway, turned, and came roaring back. It needed all the runway available to take off and rose into the air just before the pavement ended.
"We're staking a lot on this Morris Chandler," said Jonas.
"Don't worry about it," said Nevada. "Maurie and I go back a long way."
3
1
THE DESERT SETTING OF LAS VEGAS INSPIRED SOME OF the men who came to invest to give their hotels fanciful names from the Arabian Nights — fanciful Arabian Nights films being a Hollywood fad in those years. The Seven Voyages was a reference to the Seven Magic Voyages of Sinbad the Sailor. The hotel was built in a Moorish style, actually in what Morris Chandler's architects had adapted from the style of a dozen movie sets. It was in the middle of a vast irrigated green lawn where twenty luxuriant palm trees swayed on the desert wind. Long three-story wings angled away from the five-story central building.
Water played an important role in the character of The Seven Voyages. Jets of bubbling water shot up from fountains in front. A swimming pool dominated the rear. As Jonas was to see when they were inside, fountains and pools were important elements of the interior decor.
At night everything outdoors was lighted. Underwater lights gleamed in the pool. White lights shone on the palms. Colored lights played on the fountains. Warm-yellow floodlights lit the facade of the hotel.
Jonas parked the car in the lot behind the hotel, and he and Nevada entered through a rear door. Nevada knew his way around in The Seven Voyages and led Jonas directly to Chandler's executive office on the second floor.
A dark-visaged man in a black suit stopped them for a moment but only for a moment, since he recognized Nevada. He opened the door to the inner office and said he would go and find Mr. Chandler, and they should be comfortable in the meantime.
The style there was not Arabian Nights. To the contrary. Chandler's office reminded Jonas of his father's office — his own for many years now — at the Cord Explosives plant. The furniture was heavy dark oak, the chairs upholstered with black leather fastened down with ornate nails; the drapes and carpet were green; and a brass banker's lamp with a green glass shade sat on the desk. The office was old-fashioned, functional, and unglamorous.
Morris Chandler was not the man Jonas had expected to meet. He was about seventy years old, at a guess — about the same age as Nevada. Though he was erect and looked well put together, he was short and thin — a little man. Silver-gray streaked his black hair. His brows arched above weary brown eyes. His nose might once have been long and sharp, but it was flat now, undoubtedly broken at some time in his life. His face was asymmetrical; his eyes didn't match; and Jonas guessed his right cheekbone had been fractured. His mouth was wide, and the lower lip was heavy. Deep wrinkles scored his flesh at the bridge of his nose, under his eyes, and around his mouth. The skin on his neck sagged. He wore a conservative dark-blue pinstriped double-breasted suit, precisely tailored to fit him perfectly.
As he entered the office and extended his hand to be shaken, he pulled a thick black cigar from his mouth with his left hand. The sharp, strong smoke swirled around him and reached Jonas's nose. The cigar was not just strong but cheap.
"Mr. Cord," he said, taking Jonas's hand in a firm grip. "I am pleased to meet you." He turned to Nevada. "Hello, Nevada. It's good to see you again."
"H'lo, Maurie," said Nevada.
2
It was true that Nevada Smith and Morris Chandler went back a long way, back in fact to September 21, 1900. They met in a state prison camp just outside Plaquemine, Louisiana. Morris Chandler was then Maurice Cohen. Nevada Smith was Max Sand.
That day was the worst day of Chandler's whole life. He had arrived from Baton Rouge on the back of a wagon — chained to the back of the wagon. In the yard, in view of anyone interested, he'd had to strip and put on a prison uniform: black-and-white-striped pants and a shirt much too large for him. Then he'd sat on a bench, put his legs on an anvil, and watched in horror as a guard riveted shackles on his ankles: steel bands joined by about a foot and a half of chain, with a large steel ring in the middle. They gave him no shoes, and he was barefoot as he lurched across the yard toward the warden's office.
The warden was a big ruddy-faced man who wore round steel-rimmed spectacles and now pulled them off as he squinted over a paper that had been handed him by a deputy. He read what was on the paper and looked up. His face was not unkind, not even stern. He shook his head.
"Boy," he said, "you gotta be some kind of dumb. Some kind of dumb to get yourself a year in a place like this for no more'n the petty racket you was runnin'." He shook his head again. "Jew-boy from N'Yawk. That ain' gonna make it no easier for you, boy."
"He's a fancy dude." The deputy laughed. "Prettiest little suit of clothes you ever see. Celluloid collar. Pink satin necktie. High button shoes, with spats. An' he greased his hair down with some kind of stickum that smelt like geraniums. Personally, I like him better in what he's got on now. Th'other way kind of made a man sick."
The warden read from the sheet of paper. " 'Maurice Cohen. Grand larceny by fraud.' Hell, boy, you shoulda robbed a bank. You'd had a better chance of gettin' some real money, and you'd done better time here. Ol' boys'd respect you if you was a bank robber. You gonna do bad time, Maurice Cohen."
Maurie trembled. He was on the verge of tears. He was afraid his legs would fail him and he would fall on the floor.
"Well, okay then," said the warden. "Mike, you take him out and give him ten stripes. Then he can have his dinner."
"Ten stripes!" Maurie shrieked. "Why? What have I done to get — Sir! Sir! Why?" He wept, and his words blubbered out of him. "Oh, please ..."