“Nothing right now. I just want to see Breckenridge.”
The bartender caught the eye of a man who might have been an automobile tourist just sauntering around the place, looking the games over. The man’s indolence immediately dissolved into fast-moving energy as he tame over.
“Wants to see the boss,” the bartender said.
Cold eyes stared at me, and the bartender said hastily, “It’s Lam. The boss sent down a memo—”
The cold eyes were cold no longer. A well-cared-for hand with a big diamond on it was out in front of me. The man was pumping my hand up and down. “Glad you came in, Lam. How about taking a stack of chips and trying your luck, or—”
“No, thanks. I’d like to see Mr. Breckenridge.”
“Right away,” he said. “Come on up to the office.”
He took me over to the door which led up the stairs. I noticed there was a screen-protected diaphragm set in flush with the wall. My escort said, “Donald Lam’s here, Harvey. I’m bringing him up—” The door swung silently open, and we walked up the stairs.
Somewhere near the head of the stairs, my escort unobtrusively removed himself to return to the casino, and resume his sauntering supervision. I didn’t know exactly when he left me because Harvey Breckenridge was coming toward me with his hand outstretched, and a smile on his face. He gave the impression of a man who didn’t smile often, and when he did, his thin, tight lips pressed secretively together as though willing to co-operate in the smile only on the condition the cause was kept a strict secret.
“Come in. Sit down.”