About ten minutes later the telephone rang again. This time it was a bass voice that said it belonged to Ed. Killeano. I didn’t know any Ed. Killeano, but I said I was glad he had called.
“I heard you were in town, Cain,” the voice said. “I want you to know we’re glad to have you here. Anything I can do to make your stay a pleasant one be sure to let me know. The hotel will tell you where you can find me. Have a good time,” and before I could think of anything to say he rang off.
I was human enough to call the desk and ask who Ed. Killeano was. They told me in a hushed voice that he was the City Administrator. They made it sound like he was Joe Stalin.
I thanked them and went back to the balcony.
The sun shone on the golden beach, the ocean sparkled, and the palms nodded their heads in the lazy breeze. Paradise Palms still looked wonderful, but I was beginning to wonder if it was too good to be true.
I had a hunch that something was cooking.
2
I drove down Ocean Drive. The traffic was heavy, and I moved slowly, the damp, salt smell of the sea in my nose, the pounding of the surf in my ears.
It was the kind of night you read about in books. The stars looked like diamond dust on blue velvet.
Two blocks further up I came upon a lighted drive that led to a big building with one of those fancy fronts made of marble or glass or porcelain or something—a kind of powder blue with “Casino” in sizable letters on a ledge at the top of the first floor. The whole building was lit by indirect lighting, and the over-all effect was pretty nice.