The air-conditioned Imperial seemed to float in an efficient and ghostly silence. He had a slight headache from the drinks. He had the eight hundred dollars he had taken out of the game in the upstairs room at the Chula Club. He was a heavy balding man who looked ten years older than his forty years. His belly rested comfortably against spread thighs. He wore a black silk suit, handmade shoes, a thirty dollar tie. He had large pieces of some small ventures, and small pieces of some large ventures, but he had no edge at all in the Chula. He was fronting that one for Sad Frank Lesca. A man without a felony on the books had an easier time with the licenses. Frank had smart people operating it. He wished Frank would let him in for a few points. He wished Liz and his four kids would stay up at Tahoe forever, but spend less money while they were up there, as they had been ever since school let out. If Liz would lose some weight, the heat wouldn’t bother her so much. He wished he hadn’t taken such a whipping in the tax settlement last April.
