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and turned around.
    He said to my back, "O.K. Gimme the twenty-five." He sighed. "But look, if anybody asks what's wrong, tell them I suddenly got sick and you're helping me out." He sighed again. "I was gonna quit anyway."
    I told him O.K., slipped him the money, and took the cap. Then I hustled over and got my bag out of the Cad and put it up front in the limousine, climbed behind the wheel, and put on the cap. The kid told me all I had to do was wait for the passengers to climb in, then take them where they were going. Another guy handled the baggage, he said, which would make it easier for me.
    The plane came in, the passengers got off, and some of them straggled up to the limousine. I kept my face turned away in case any of them were old hands on this line and wanted to know what the score was. In about five minutes we were ready to go, with the kid sitting on my right on the front seat acting sick. I put the buggy in low and took off. This was easy. This was a breeze. I felt pretty good, but as we approached the Flamingo on the right, I saw the blue car just this side of it about ten feet back in the curving drive that swung in front of the ornate entrance of the club that "Bugsy" Siegel used to control. The Chrysler was facing out, ready to go, and one of the two men was standing beside the car looking out toward the highway. I swung my face away, around to the left, just as two things happened: I thought how cute it would be if somebody wanted out at the Flamingo, and a booming voice from the rear said, "I'd like out at the Flamingo."
    I kept my head to the left as we passed the entrance to the big hotel, then turned it straight ahead as the voice boomed, a little angrily now, "Don't you hear? Stop. I say stop! "
    I wasn't about to stop. I rolled right on by. The kid groaned sickly. I was past the first road block by now, and maybe there weren't any more, so I looked over my shoulder at the man with the big voice, who was big and sloppy-fat and about fifty, and said, "I'm sorry, sir, I'll drop you off on the way back. I'm new on—" and I busted it off in the middle when I saw Lorraine, Sweet Lorraine, eyeballing me with her chin damn near down to her gold dust.
    I think I squeaked a little when I saw her sitting clear over on the right side of the back seat, but then it occurred to me that I should have known that if she were heading for Vegas she could well be on the plane, and I finished my sentence miserably: ". . . the. . . job."
    I turned around to the front again with my brain a little numb, and decided that numb was its usual condition, and the Flamingo's loss shouted, "I want out now! Now! Aaaargh!" as the kid at my right groaned sickly and softly, "Oooh, the fat bastard," and then a tiny voice from the right of the rear seat said, "Let me out here," and I looked to the right of the road for my first glimpse of Dante's Inferno. Well, at least I'd seen the damned place.
    I let Lorraine out along with two other people, then made the rounds till all were dropped off except the guy simmering in the back seat. Ever since I'd been so uncouth as to drive past the Flamingo so I wouldn't, perhaps, get killed, he'd been sitting back there muttering to himself and the other passengers about this-is-an-outrage-bloody-outrage-I'll-report-that-young-man and so on. He was all alone back there now, but still muttering. When I headed back up the Strip he said, "I'll report you."
    "You'll report me, hell. I stole the damn car. I'm just going for a ride."
    The kid chuckled happily, sympathizing with me, but the guy subsided for a moment. I don't think he believed me, though; I think he thought I was crazy. I had him pegged as one of those guys so full of his own importance that he could hardly stand it. He was so full of something else that I could hardly stand it. I've run into his type before. They think that anyone who chauffeurs a limousine or taxi, or waits table, or bellhops, is an animal on a par with the slug, and it