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what I could tell from the advertising, the Jubilee girls were old Vegas – all poise and sequins and makeup and feathers. Their antecedents would have danced for Sammy Davis Jr and Ol’ Blue Eyes. Today, however, out on the Strip, the advertising for Jubilee was engaged in a running battle with posters for joints where the girls danced in people’s laps. Without seeing what the Showgirls had to offer, I didn’t like their chances of routing the competition.
    My cell rang. It was Arlen. I put him on speaker. ‘Hey, s’up?’
    ‘Your friend, Randy. Seems he checked out with a BCD.’
    BCD – a bad conduct discharge. ‘What were the circumstances?’ I asked, surprised.
    ‘Cloudy. “Conduct unbecoming” is what the file says. There was a court martial. I talked to the JAG and his defense counsel. There was a suspicion he was acting as a courier service in Afghanistan – hashish.’
    That didn’t sound like the Randy I knew, but then I probably didn’t know him all that well. ‘Was Anna involved?’ If Sweetwater was in trouble he’d have called her, wouldn’t he?
    ‘First thing I checked. Anna’s name doesn’t come up in any of the records, and JAG has no recollection that she was ever called.’
    Somehow, that was important. I didn’t want Anna messed up in this in any way. ‘Were the charges proved?’ I asked.
    ‘The BCD was the result of a plea bargain.’
    ‘How’d he swing that?’
    ‘The evidence went missing.’
    Sure it did.
    ‘He pleaded guilty to possession but without intent to distribute.’
    I couldn’t help but smile. Randy was lucky. He could’ve done hard time.
    ‘Maybe it’s not relevant, but I thought you should know,’ said Arlen.
    ‘Thanks,’ I told him.
    ‘So what are you doing?’
    ‘Driving down the Strip, looking for my hotel.’
    ‘Put ten bucks in a slot for me. Oh, and I’m acting on the advice I gave you.’
    ‘Which was?’
    ‘Take a vacation. Marnie invited me over.’
    ‘You’re going to St Barts?’
    ‘Yeah . . . Look, if you’ve got any problems with that, let me know, because if you do I’ll—’
    ‘No problem my end,’ I said. ‘Knock yourself out, bud.’
    ‘You sure?’
    ‘I’m sure.’
    ‘Cool. Hey, before I forget, your test result came back in.’
    ‘What test?’
    ‘Your Myers-Briggs test.’
    ‘Did I pass?’
    ‘No passes or fails, remember? You’re supposed to go through the results with a specialist, but, in short, your type indicators are ESFJ. Do you want to know what that means?’
    ‘That I’m good with the ladies?’
    ‘Dream on. Extroverted, sensing, feeling, judging – ESFJ. I’ll make sure the initials go on the bottom of your emails.’
    ‘Tell me you don’t actually believe in this shit?’ I asked him.
    ‘Depends who’s asking. If it’s Wynngate, it’s genius.’
    ‘Who am I supposed to get on with best?’
    ‘Other ESFJs.’
    ‘And who should I avoid?’
    ‘ENTPs.’
    ‘Aren’t you one of those?’
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘I rest my case.’ The driveway entrance to Bally’s was coming up. ‘Hey, gotta go. When you come up for air in St Barts, gimme a call.’
    ‘Roger that.’
    I hit the end button, went up the ramp and found a space in the parking lot. Eventually, I made my way to reception and stood in line behind buffalo-sized people moseying toward the counter. The air hummed with the sound of musical bells and magical twinkles rising from the slots down in the pit.
    After checking in, I took the ice chest and carry-on, wheeled over to the counter selling seats to the evening’s Showgirls performance, and bought my seat from an uninterested black guy who conducted the transaction without eye contact. I still had plenty of time to freshen up before the show so I took myself up to my room out on the end of a dark two-hundred-yard-long tunnel on the twentieth floor. Opening the drapes I discovered that I had an aerial view of ‘Paris’, its pool occupying the area around the base of the Eiffel