"Sure," Malone said.
"Now that the contacts are gone and everybody's dead or resigned or being investigated," Palveri said, "what do you think's happened to all that? Down the drain, Malone."
Malone said: "But—"
"And not only that," Palveri said, waving the cigar. "The club was going good, and you know I thought about building a second one a little farther out. A straight investment, get me: an honest one."
Malone nodded as if he knew all about it.
"So I got the foundation in, Malone," Palveri said, "and it's just sitting there, not doing anything. A whole foundation going to pot because I can't do anything more with it. Just sitting there because everything's going to hell with itself."
"In a handbasket," Malone said automatically.
Palveri gave him a violent nod. "You said it, Malone," he added. "Everything. My men, too." He sighed. "And the contractor after me for his dough. Good old Harry Seldon, everybody's friend. Sure. Owe him some money and find out how friendly he is. Talks about nothing but figures. Ten thousand. Twelve thousand."
"Tough," Malone said. "But what do you mean about your men?"
"Mistakes," Palveri said. "Book-keepers throwing the computers off and croupiers making mistakes paying off and collecting—and always mistakes against me, Malone. Always. It's like a curse. Even the hotel bills—three of them this week were made out too small and the customer paid up and went before I found out about it."