"Jesus, look at that!" Owens said as the camera caught a British Airways Red Cross jet sitting on the runway. "How come all handicapped or sick people come to Vegas?" he grumbled.

A string of obscenities flew out of his mouth when he saw the portable staircase wheeled up to the jet's door, which was standing open. Seven white-coated attendants descended the steps, each one carrying a wheelchair. An airport worker opened the collapsed chairs and lined them up. Minutes later, the same attendants carried frail-looking patients down the steps and carefully placed their charges in the waiting chairs.

"Jesus Christ, tell me those people aren't registered here at the hotel. You know what hell wheelchairs cause in the gaming rooms. First they block the aisles, then the people sitting in them start to complain about the cigarette smoke and the watered-down drinks. They demand instant service, and they want smiles and hop-to-it-ness. They send their goddamn food back six times, and want to-go bags. And they damn well don't tip, and they tie up the elevators. Well, where the hell are they staying?"

Mike Oliver was busy tapping away on a computer. "No one is showing seven British handicapped guests. Probably staying someplace private. I think we're in the clear, Boss."

"Okay. Keep everyone on their toes. Who the hell knows when old Homer will decide to show up. I'll be in my office. I have to deal with that shit about Cosmo Cricket's fancy set of wheels. He thinks he's going to walk out of here with a check for a million dollars.

"Richards," he boomed, "find out what the hell went wrong with the garage cameras. I'm not going to authorize a million-dollar payout if Cricket doesn't know how to drive. I don't give two shits if Udal is his boss or not. You, Oliver, find out where those handicapped people are staying. Something is not sitting right with me about that jet and its passengers. Check the hospital and see what reason, if any, they might have to be going there. If they're here for fun and games, nail it down."

The inner ring rolled their eyes, then sat down together to decide if they wanted to waste their time on handicapped people or sit and finish the donuts and the coffee.

"Screw it," Quintera said. "A private ambulance picked them up, which means someone has money, and people with money pay for privacy. End of story."

The others agreed. They went back to their food.

Down the hall and around the corner, Hank Owens stomped his way into his private office. He settled himself behind his desk and bellowed for coffee, which appeared like magic just as Cosmo Cricket walked through the doorway. As always, Owens was struck by the sheer size of the man. He sighed and motioned for the lawyer to enter and take a seat. "Coffee?"

"Sure, why not?" Cricket asked.