CHAPTER FIVE

Director Malone had given West and Artie his private office number, with instructions to call him when they got to Las Vegas.

"Glad you got there OK," said Malone. "I take it you met Agent Chin."

"Who?"

"Agent Chin, your Las Vegas liaison."

West raised his eyebrows. "We have a Las Vegas liaison?"

"Well, of course you do! What did I tell you in Washington?"

"Just a moment." West lowered the receiver. "Hey, Artie: did Malone say anything about an Agent Chin?"

"No. Who's that?"

"Supposedly, our liaison." To Malone, "Artie doesn't remember that, either."

Malone groaned in self-reproach. "You know what? I'm at that point in life where I can forget what I'm doing while I'm doing it. I'm sorry, Mr. West. I could've sworn I told you and Mr. Gordon about her. She was to meet you at the airport."

"Oh, we were met at the airport, all right — by four of Loveless' goons."

"What? How did he know you were coming?"

"Perhaps he has a mole in the Service."

"No! Who'd betray us like that?"

"Maybe you should find out," West said sardonically. "Now, tell me about this Agent Chin?"

"Since we don't have a field office in Las Vegas, I had Amanda Chin drive out from L.A. to set up a temporary headquarters for you two. She was supposed to meet you at the airport, but clearly did not. So, where the hell is she?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"I'll make some phone calls and keep you updated."

"We'll keep you updated, too." West hung up the receiver and related to Artie what he had just heard from Malone.

Gordon shook his head. "He assigns us a liaison and forgets to tell us. What else has he forgotten?"

"I'm sure we'll find out."

"That's what scares me, Jim."

"So, what do we do now? Begin our search for Loveless, or look for Agent Chin?"

Before Artie could answer, there was a knock on the door. West drew his gun and slowly opened it. Standing before him was a lovely young Chinese woman of diminutive stature. She was dressed in black — boots, pants, and sweater. Her hair was tied in a bun and sported an orchid. Her full, pouting mouth was painstakingly coated with red lipstick. Her lashes were a good half-inch long and grew above deep-looking, jet black eyes.

"Mr. West?" she said in an authoritative contralto. "I'm Agent Amanda Chin."

"Ah, yes! Please come in." As she did so, West noted, "You were supposed to meet us at the airport."

"I am so sorry! My engine overheated. By the time I got to Alamo Field, you were both gone. I assumed you took a taxi."

"You assumed wrong," Artie interjected. "And by the way, I'm Artemus Gordon."

"Hello, sir!" She regarded the men. "I can't believe I'm actually meeting you two."

"I hope we look all right for a couple of dead men," West joked.

"That's the amazing part! When I first heard what Director Malone had done…. It was like something out of your old case files."

"You've read our case files?" asked a surprised Artie.

"Of course! Learning them is part of every new agent's training. And so much of our equipment is based on what Mr. Gordon came up with decades ago."

A genuinely flattered Artie chimed in, "Well, it's nice to be appreciated. How long have you been with the Service?"

"Three years. And I've never encountered anything like what you guys went through in the old days."

"Just as well," said West. "Some of that stuff was nightmarish; gave me bad dreams for years."

Agent Chin looked surprised. "The great Jim West had nightmares?"

"The great Jim West is human. Or at least, I was. Hey, Artie: do we still qualify as human?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Jim. I'll tell you this much, though: I'm experiencing the very human feeling of hunger. Shall we head downstairs for dinner?"

"Good idea." To Agent Chin, "After that, you can show us our headquarters."

xxx

He sat at a blackjack table in the Northern Club, motioning to the dealer for additional cards, when he heard a gruff-sounding voice directly behind him.

"Jesus Christ, look at the fairy!"

He stiffened and turned around on his stool. Directly behind him was an obese bald man of about fifty. He wore faded bluejeans, a checkered plaid shirt, and a ten-gallon hat. His breath reeked of whiskey, while his jowls and upper lip sported several days' worth of stubble. His eyes suggested two blueberries in pools of red licorice.

The gambler asked, "Are you addressing me?"

"You're damned right I am."

"Well, shut your mouth and go away. I'm in the midst of a game."

He squeezed the gambler's shoulder. "Who do you think you're talking to, you goddamned queer?"

He threw down his cards and stood up. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion outside."

"Hell, yeah!"

He grabbed his walking stick and accompanied the belligerent man to the alley. Outside, he asked, "What, precisely, is your problem?"

"You're my problem! I don't like homos."

"And I don't like fat, drunken losers with the I.Q. of a cactus."

The man's face turned red and he raised a fist. "You're gonna regret the day you were born, you faggot son of a…."

He pressed a button on his walking stick, which made a knife blade protrude from the bottom. With livid fury, he brought it down on the man's foot. The eyes of his would-be assailant opened into tea saucers while he screamed in mortal agony.

The blackjack player removed the knife from the man's foot, slammed him backwards into the wall, and lifted his walking stick so the knife blade was against the man's crotch.

"I'm sorry. Did I interrupt your train of thought? You were saying something about not liking homos."

"I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!"

"Then why did you say it? They why did you say it?"

The man whimpered but said nothing further.

He moved the knife a fraction of an inch farther into the man's genitalia and laughed at the resultant scream. "What do you say we turn you into a woman?"

"What? No! God no, please!"

"Pretty woman, walking down the street. Pretty woman, the kind I'd like to meet."

"Please, mister, don't cut it off! I couldn't live without it!"

He exhaled noisily. "Oh, all right. If for no other reason, that I'm sick of your bellowing."

He pushed the button on his walking stick again, and the knife blade retreated. He kicked the man in the balls, causing him to cry some more and fall to the ground. The gambler turned the man over on his back, jumped up, and came stomping down on his ribs. They made a sinister cracking noise.

"Please, mister!" the man sobbed. "You're killing me."

He stepped off the man and gave him a hard kick in the side with his pointed-toe boots. "You don't tug on Superman's cape, you don't spit in the wind, you don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and you don't mess around with me!" He regarded the whimpering, broken form beneath him with a sneer. "You look like a jigsaw puzzle with a couple of pieces gone."

As he re-entered the Northern Club, the manager rushed up to him. "Everything all right, Dr. Loveless? We heard there was some trouble."

"I'm perfectly fine, Mr. Siegel. You might check the alley, though. And I apologize for the blood."

"Hey, don't even worry about that! I'll get it cleaned up. You just enjoy your night."

"Oh, I shall." As he walked toward the blackjack table, Loveless had to laugh. A high roller could get away with anything.