t squeezed off a couple of small arteries. He's
back in business already, I'd say."

Had I mentioned the rustic _decor_ of the Sky Hi Club? When Las Vegas
had deteriorated to the point where it would turn most stomachs, the
better clubs migrated up among the tall pines, along the shores of Lake
Tahoe. And in place of the dated chromium glitter of Vegas, they had
reached way back to the "Good old days" for styling. The Sky Hi Club was
typical. The outside was all hand-hewn logs. The inside had a low,
rough-beamed ceiling, and a sure-enough genuine wood floor. The planks
were random-width, tree nailed to the joists. Even the help was dressed
up like a lot of cow-pokes, whatever cow-pokes were.

This ersatz ranch-house was owned by two completely unlovelies. Peno
Rose, who had used his political leverage to get me on the job, I had
known since he'd been a policy number runner on the lower East Side. His
partner, Simonetti, was something else, but somehow I wasn't looking
forward to meeting him any more than I was to seeing Rose again.

I guess it's the filth within these croupier types that makes them
surround themselves with the aseptic immaculacy of iridium and glass.
Their office was in a penthouse perched on the slanting roof shakes of
the casino. It was big as a squash court, and as high and as square.
Every wall was glass. It couldn't have been in greater contrast to the
contrived hominess of the casino if they'd thought about it for a year.
Then, for the last twist, the furnishings were straight out of the old
Southwest--Navajo rugs, heavy, Spanish oak desks, and a pair of matching
couches or divans of whole steer leather stretched over oak frames.

* * * * *

Peno Rose came quickly toward me the moment Fowler Smythe showed me into
the office, spurs jingling. "Hey! There he is! The boy they had to rule
off the track! How's a boy, Lefty? Long time no see." He had his hand
stuck way out ahead of him. His sharp, dried-out features repelled me
twice as much as they had ten years before. That hatchet face of his was
gashed with what he thought was a smile. I've seen sharks with a
pleasanter gape. Naturally, I didn't take his hand.

"Hi, Peno," I said. He jerked his hand back and straightened up. He
snapped the hole in his face shut.

"My partner," he said, waving his hand at the dark-skinned gent standing
over against one of the fumed oak desks. "Sime, meet Lefty Bupp, the
hottest TK