The hand twisted my coat, hard. I took a deep breath and managed to start talking, but the words sounded funny, as though I was listening to someone else say some of the things I wanted to say.
“I’m from Los Angeles. I haven’t been in Las Vegas for an hour. I came in on the Salt Lake plane. I never saw this place before. I played a dollar’s worth of nickels into the machine, and hit the jackpot with the last nickel.”
There was silence. Gradually my head was clearing. The man who was holding me glanced at a newcomer who looked as though he might be the manager of the place. The manager said, “Talk’s cheap. These crooks always have a swell alibi cooked up.” But his voice didn’t have quite the ring of assurance it should have had.
The green-aproned attendant who lay sprawled out on the floor stirred, got up on one elbow, and looked past us with glassy eyes that seemed to stare right through the wall of the building.
The manager bent over him. “Now listen, Louie, we can’t muff this. Are you all right?”
The attendant mumbled something.
“Look, Louie, we’ve got to be sure now. Is this one of them? Is this the guy?”
The manager pointed at me.
The groggy attendant said, “That’s him. He’s the brains of the gang. They’re cup-and-wire workers. I’ve seen ’em before. This guy’s the leader. The others came in first an’ cased the joint.”
“Come on,” the law said to me. “You’re going places.”