ed himself in the mirror when he was done. Nobody, he told
himself with some assurance, would recognize him as the FBI Agent who
had come into the Golden Palace two years before, clad in Elizabethan
costume and escorting a Queen who had turned out to be a phenomenal
poker player. After all, Las Vegas was a town in which lots of strange
things happened daily, and he was dressed differently, and he'd aged
at least two years in the intervening two years.

He put in a call for a hallway car--carefully refraining from asking
for Murray.

X

"Business, Mr. Malone," the bartender said, "is shot all to hell. The
whole country is shot all to hell."

"I believe it," Malone said.

"Sure," the bartender said. He finished polishing one glass and set to
work on another one. "Look at the place," he went on. "Half full. You
been here two weeks now, and you know how business was when you came.
Now look."

It wasn't necessary, but Malone turned obediently to survey the huge
gambling hall. It was roofed over by a large golden dome that seemed
to make the place look even emptier than it could possibly be. There
were still plenty of people around the various tables, and something
approaching a big crowd clustered around the _chemin de fer_ layout.
But it was possible to breathe in the place, and even move from table
to table without stepping into anybody's pocket. Las Vegas was
definitely sliding downhill at the moment, Malone thought.

The glitter of polished gold and silver ornaments, the low cries of
the various dealers and officials, the buzz of conversation, were all
the same. But under the great dome, Malone told himself sadly, you
could almost see the people leaving, one by one.

"No money around either," the bartender said. "Except maybe for a few
guys like yourself. I mean, people take their chances at the wheel or
the tables, but there's no big betting going on, just nickel-dime
stuff. And no big spending, either. Used to be tips in a place like
this, just tips, would really mount up to something worth while. Now,
nothing." He put the glass and towel down and leaned across the bar.
"You know what I think, Mr. Malone?" he said.

"No," Malone said politely. "What do you think?"

The bartender looked portentous. "I think all the big-money guys have
rushed off home to look after their business and like that," he said,
"everything's going to hell, and what I want to know is: What's wrong
with the country? You're a big bu