"You have a real doctor's bedside manner. What do you want?"
Faulkner conveyed extreme nervousness.
"I think, under the circumstances that, shall we say, oh, one million would do it. Yes, that sounds fair."
"One million? One million dollars?" Faulkner shrieked from his pool side lounge chair.
"Yessir, that sounds just about right." Sir George paused for effect. "Now here is what I want you to do. Go to Las Vegas, and have your credit extended, and acquire small bills. Then, place the money in a silver Samsonite case at Union Station. Locker number 12. Is that simple enough?" British humor at its best.
"Simple, yes. Possible, no," Faulkner whispered in terror.
"Oh, yes, it is possible, as you well know. You cleared up the $2.4 Million you owed Caesar's only last week. Your credit is excellent."
"There's no way you can know that . . ." Then it occurred to him. The mob. He wasn't losing enough at the tables, they wanted more. Losing money was one thing, his way, but a sore winner is the worst possible enemy. He had no choice. There was only one way out.
"All right, all right. What locker number?"
"Twelve. Within 48 hours. And, I probably needn't mention it, but no police."
"Of course," Faulkner smiled to himself. At last the nightmare would be over.