I hadn’t been out on the balcony more than three minutes before the telephone rang. I answered it, thinking maybe it was a wrong number.
“Mr. Cain?”
I said as far as I knew it was.
“Welcome to Paradise Palms,” went on the voice: a rich, fruity baritone with a dago accent. “This is Speratza talking. I manage the Casino Club. I hope you’ll come over. We’ve heard about you.”
“You have?” I said, pleased. “That’s swell. Sure, I’d like to come over. I’m on vacation, but I still gamble.”
“We have a line place here, Mr. Cain,” he said, goodwill oozing from every pore. “You’ll like it. How about tonight? Can you make it?”
“Sure. I’ll be over.”
“Ask for me: Don Speratza. I’ll see you’re fixed good. You got a girl?”
“Not right now, but there seem to be plenty kicking around.” “But not all of them are obliging, Mr. Cain,” he said, laughing. “I’ll fix you with one who knows her way around. We want you to have a good time while you’re with us. We don’t often have such a celebrity. You leave the girl to me. You won’t be disappointed.”
I said it was pretty nice of him and hung up.