The D.A. hammered at him for half an hour trying to get something out of Howley, but he didn't get anywhere useful. Howley admitted that he'd come to Nevada to play the wheels; what was wrong with that? He admitted that he'd come just to try out his good luck charm—and what was wrong with that? He even admitted that it worked for him every time—
And what was wrong, pray, with that?
Thursby knew he was licked. He'd known it for a long time. His summation to the jury showed it. The expressions on the faces of the jury as they listened showed it.
They brought in a verdict of Not Guilty.
When I got back to my office, I picked up the phone and called the Golden Casino. I asked for George Brockey, the manager. When I got him on the phone and identified myself, he said, "Oh. It's you." His voice didn't sound friendly.
"It's me," I said.
"I suppose you're going to slap a suit for false arrest on the Casino now, eh, counselor?"
"Not a bit of it, George," I said. "The thought occurred to me, but I think we can come to terms."
"Yeah?"