Dawn of a New Day (15 page)

M
ark Stevens was not favorably impressed with Las Vegas. He had arrived two days before he planned to spring his surprise on Elvis Presley and spent most of his time walking through the glittering casinos that had made the city a mecca for suckers. “You see one casino, you've seen them all,” he muttered to himself as he walked down the long aisles of slot machines, pausing from time to time to stare at the faces of those who were frantic to lose their money. Although most of the eyes of the players were glazed with an identical stupor, he saw little similarity between the players. Some who plugged their coins into the one-armed bandits were very young; more than one, he suspected, were below the legal age to be in the gambling palace. Many of them were older people, faces lined with years of hard work. Others were middle-aged, probably working people; still others looked wealthy.

He paused beside one machine and watched a woman with an inexpensive-looking print dress thumb coin after coin into the slot. Examining her face carefully, Mark tried to detect some joy but could find nothing but a sense of desperation. She was a heavyset woman of some thirty years of age, he judged, and her brown eyes were tinged with a combination of hope and despair. Each time the wheels rolled in front of her eyes and came to a clicking stop, she heaved a sigh, then plugged another coin into the slot. Finally she hit some fortunate combination, and the coins poured in a cascade of jangling silver into the receptacle provided for them. Mark expected to see her cry for joy, but she simply scooped them up, put them into a canvas bag she wore at her side, and continued to play with the same sense of futility.

Shaking his head in wonder, Mark moved on and finally came to the huge room that featured all sorts of enticements for people to lose their money at a more rapid rate than the slots. He moved from table to table and for the next two hours talked to as many people as would give him the time. Few of them were ready to do this, however. They had come to gamble, not to give interviews to a reporter.

He hovered at the back of a crowd watching a small, well-dressed man with a good tan as he bucked the roulette wheel. The player had a large stack of chips in front of him, but after an hour they were all gone. He stood up and muttered, “Well, that's it,” under his breath, then turned and shoved his way through the crowd. Mark followed the man, who went to the bar and sat down; seeing the seat next to him was empty, Mark plopped down beside him. He listened as the man ordered a drink in a shaky voice, and he himself ordered a Coke. The man drank the double Scotch down and sat there clenching the glass tightly.

“No luck today?” Mark asked. He scarcely expected an answer, but the man turned his head and said bitterly, “I've lost everything! What am I going to tell my wife?”

“Where you from?” Mark asked, hoping to get the man talking. He could see that there was a sense of bitterness, frustration, and fear etched in the man's eyes, and the lips were pale and trembling as he answered.

“Denver,” he muttered. “I'm in the wholesale hardware business.” He turned quickly, hailed the bartender, and ordered another double Scotch. When it came before him, he drained it down as if it were tap water. Bracing his shoulders against the shock of the alcohol, he bowed his head and did not speak.

“Sometimes it's not such a good idea to come to these places,” Mark said gently.

For a moment the man was silent, and Mark saw that his shoulders were trembling; then he saw, when the man turned to him, that there were tears in his eyes. “I've got a good wife and three kids, and I had a good business, but I got hooked on gambling. I've lost everything—the house, both cars, all my savings. This was the last of it. I came here to make a big killing and pay everything off, and I swore and promised God I'd never come back again—but now it's all gone.”

Mark wanted to say something to comfort him. “Never too late to quit a thing like this,” he murmured. “If I were you, I think I'd just go home, tell my wife what happened, and ask her to forgive me; then I'd never bet a penny on anything for the rest of my life.”

“You think I haven't done that?” The voice was bitter, sharp, and terse. Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, the man wiped his face, then stood up, and without another word to Mark walked stiffly across the room, shouldering people aside. He disappeared, and Mark stood up, a sense of disbelief in his mind over what he had just seen. He looked over the room that was swarming with people and thought,
They're all alike. Come to make a big killing, and most of them don't do it. Don't they know that the only way this kind of a place stays open is to set the odds so the house wins?
He moved out of the casino, taking a breath of fresh air, for there was a staleness and an odor of death in the place to him. He had planned to write an article on the casinos and what made people throw their hard-earned money away, but now he wondered about it.
That fellow could have read a hundred stories telling about the evils of gambling. Probably has, but it didn't stop him. I wonder what makes human beings do foolish things like this?

Feeling like Secret Agent 007 in a way, Mark Stevens examined himself in the mirror, straightened the white collar of his shirt, and ran his hands along the sides of the uniform sleeve. He stared in the mirror and laughed aloud. “You're a fool for trying this! You'll never get away with it!” But the challenge stirred him, and he left his room and made his way to the hotel where he had discovered Elvis Presley was due to hold a champagne breakfast for a few select guests. Ever since Mark heard that Elvis was going to marry Priscilla Beaulieu, a scheme had been formulating in his mind. Elvis was big news, and anything he did, no matter how mundane, was good for snaring readers. As he piled up the information about the champagne breakfast, Mark had beat his brains trying to figure a way to get in on it. He knew, of course, that the breakfast would be more closely guarded than the United Nations, but there was no chance, whatsoever, that the guards would admit anyone who even looked like they might be a reporter.

Late one night, an idea had come to Mark.
Why don't I disguise myself as a waiter, slip in, and do a little waiting?
It had been a fruitful idea. He had learned quite a bit as an investigative reporter and had discovered that the Williamson Corporation would cater the affair. It took a little effort, but he managed to find one of the waiters who would be serving, and had, without seeming to do so, wheedled out of him the name of the company that provided the uniforms for Williamson people. It had not been too difficult to go to that place, pretend to be a waiter, and get a uniform. He had also discovered the timing of the breakfast and the dining room where it would be held. So, now as he gave himself a final look in the mirror, he muttered, “All they can do is throw me out!”; then he left his hotel room.

He moved down the street in a waiter's uniform, attracting no attention whatsoever. When he reached the Featherstone Hotel he entered by the service entrance, and by keeping his eyes open and making no more than two or three false entries, found a group of men all wearing the same uniform he had on. He had arrived just in time, for they were all carrying silver trays loaded with food and alcoholic drinks of all sorts. No one paid the slightest attention to him, so he simply picked up a tray from the table and joined himself to the line that was moving out of the service room.

The line proceeded down a short corridor where the elevator waited. Mark got on, and the fellow next to him winked and said, “This is something, gettin' to see the King, ain't it now?”

“Sure is,” Mark said. “You like Elvis?”

“Never seen him, but my fourteen-year-old has got every record he made. Myself, I don't like his singing much. I'm a Perry Como man.”

The elevator came to a smooth halt, the door opened, and the line formed. Mark managed to find a place at the rear as they moved into a large room with panels of glass at one end allowing in the bright May sunshine.

The tables that had been set up were covered with spotless white linen; Mark took time to observe the man in front of him and began to put the food on the tables. The guests were coming in even now, and he searched the incoming group but did not see Elvis. He lingered as long as he dared, but a tall man with a white carnation in his lapel said, “All right. Go get the rest of the food and the drinks.”

Mark was forced to leave, and the crew of servers made their way back down to the service room, loaded up, and then returned to the dining room. As soon as Mark entered he saw Elvis sitting at the center table. He was wearing a black tuxedo with a white carnation in his lapel. His black hair was well combed, and a lock hung down on his forehead. He was turning to speak to his bride, who was one of the most beautiful women Mark had ever seen. He had seen her picture, of course, and now that he saw her in person, he understood the fascination that Elvis had for her. She was wearing a white chiffon gown embroidered with tiny pearls. Her black hair cascaded down her back, and her dark eyes flashed as she laughed at something that Presley said.

Mark had determined to stay in the area, and when the rest of the crew filed their way out he ducked behind a pillar and began to take mental notes. He listened, trying to pick up some of the conversation, but he knew he would never get close enough to Presley and his bride, nor could he just walk up and begin speaking to him. As he waited, he really hoped that Presley would make some sort of speech and perhaps the bride as well.

He remembered reading that the couple had met in 1959 in Germany while Elvis was serving with the U.S. Army. The bride was the daughter of an Air Force Lieutenant Colonel and had attended high school in Frankfurt. Both Elvis and Priscilla were from Memphis, Tennessee.

Finally someone cried out, “Let's hear a speech from the new bridegroom, and the bride!”

Elvis grinned as the applause, and calling, and cries continued. Finally he stood up and waved his hands, his face flushed as he said with his thick southern accent, “I'm not makin' no speech on my weddin' day. All I got to say is I'm glad I kept myself for my bride, and I'm glad she kept herself for me.” He turned and said, “You want to say somethin', honey?”

The bride shook her head but lifted her voice, saying, “Thank you all for coming, and for being so kind.”

Mark stood behind the pillar as the breakfast continued. Finally, in desperation, he thought,
I've got to do more than this.
Taking a deep breath, he moved out from behind the pillar and walked along the lines of tables. He came to stand slightly to Elvis's left and cleared his throat. When Presley turned around, Mark said, “I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Presley, but I did want to congratulate you on your wedding. I hope you have the happiest marriage in the world.”

“Why, thank you, pal,” Elvis said. He stuck out his hand and Mark took it, and then the famous grin flashed. “With a girl like this I think I've got a pretty good chance.”

“I'm sure you do, and to you, Mrs. Presley, may you be very happy in your marriage.”

Priscilla Presley smiled brilliantly and said, “Why, thank you very much. It's so nice of you to come and wish us good fortune.”

Mark started to say something else, but he felt a hand grip his arm; he turned around to face a large man whose eyes were hard as flint. “You're not one of our waiters,” he said.

Mark started to speak, but he was pulled away. He turned back and called out loudly, “Have a good life, both of you!” The man's grip was like iron. When they were outside came the inevitable question. “What are you? Some kind of a reporter?”

“Not a very good one,” Mark said cheerfully, “but at least I got to wish the bride and groom a good life.”

“Get out of here before I bust your back!”

Mark left the hotel, went back to his room, changed clothes, and then took the uniform back and got his deposit. A sense of satisfaction filled him, and he thought,
Well, at least I got to shake hands with Elvis. That's something.