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Sandpiper Hotel and Casino and drove to the employee lot in the back. A service entrance, a single unpainted set of stairs before an unmarked door, led inside. One of Buzz Craddock’s guards, a goon with a potbelly and a shotgun, sat there on a folding chair. Nobody said anything as they drove to a stop. Roscoe felt the first hints of tension, enough to make his heart release a single, pent-up beat. Wooster killed the engine and they got out.
    The guard looked up from his racing form and pushed up the brim of his fedora. Wooster, Angel, and Roscoe all wore gray coveralls, taken from Donovan Motors in La Cruz. Roscoe sported a baseball cap to hide his face, as he’d been seen around the Sandpiper yesterday. Wooster and Angel hadn’t visited the casino yet, and they walked straight up to the guard. All of them had bags of tools swinging from their shoulders. They certainly looked the part.
    Angel approached the guard. “How you doing, man? We’re from the plumbing company. Here to see about the toilet trouble.”
    “Toilet trouble?” The guard folded his newspaper. “I didn’t hear about it.”
    “Well, it ain’t the staff toilets that are having the trouble,” Angel said. “Guest bathrooms on the casino―you know, the places where the customers go? Apparently, they ain’t flushing. So the gamblers have to deal with the stink of their own crap in between rounds at the slot machines. We’re supposed to go in there and fix it.”
    Roscoe lowered his eyes, not looking at the guard. Wooster gripped the strap of the bag around his shoulder and said nothing. The guy at the door scratched the cleft of his chin. He looked at his clipboard. “I don’t got no plumbers written down. Not a thing about them.” He stared at Angel. “You sure you’re supposed to be here?”
    “Hey, I just go where the company tells me. They said the Sandpiper and we went to the Sandpiper.” Angel tapped the clipboard. “Maybe your boss forgot to write it down. You know, busy guy and all that? It’s easy to let little details slip through.”
    “Yeah,” the goon said. “I suppose so.”
    “So, we can wait here while you go in there, find your boss, tell him what happened, and he talks to his boss and so on and so on.” Angel rolled his eyes. “And meanwhile, the stink in the bathrooms will keep adding up. It’ll probably start seeping onto the casino floor. Frankie Fink will catch wind of it. I bet he’ll demand the plumbers get in there and fix it. Then they’ll find out that the plumbers are already here, but they were waiting on you to get permission to go inside and get to work.” Angel shrugged. “We can wait if you want. But I think it’ll be better if you just let us in and square it with your boss later.”
    The goon looked Angel over. He shrugged slowly, making a performance of rolling his shoulders back. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.” He unlocked the door, and pulled it open to reveal a wide hall. “Main casino floor is dead ahead. Just go down there, ignore the staircase, and head through the double doors. You can’t miss it.”
    While he unlocked the door, Angel unzipped the messenger bag hanging on his shoulder. He drew out one of his pearl-handled automatics and thumbed back the hammer. The guard spun around. His eyes settled on the gun and he sighed, a low grumble, like the sound a cartoon dog would make after it couldn’t catch the cat. He didn’t even look surprised―merely disappointed. Angel jabbed the pistol in his nose, grabbed his shotgun, and tossed it back to Roscoe while Wooster approached. Roscoe ejected the shells and dropped the weapon, far out of reach of the guard. The goon scratched his cheek and lowered his head, looking saddened by his own credulity.
    Wooster pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back. “Sorry, brother. Just business is all.” He gestured for the fellow to put his hands behind his back. “You know what these are. Turn around, real slow.” The guard looked at