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CHAPTER TWO

Now here's the picture! A real crazy person has just been signed up for a two week engagement in Las Vegas! He's running out of money and has to wait 10 days before starting work. He has a sick truck that must make a trip within three weeks to St. Louis and he's jumping for joy!?! He can't take any chances that might blow this gig, so he'd better make the most of these glorious, two weeks. But there's no money coming in. Good! Why not fly out the whole family to Las Vegas from Florida? It'll only take the last $300.00 in savings. The man is absolutely crazy!

Sure enough, Pam, Caprice and Sunshine were at McCarran Airport in few days for a real adventure. I've always wanted to share success with those I love the most.

We all piled into the hot Chevy van and checked into an older $50.00 a week motel efficiency on Fremont Street. It was Caesar's Palace to me at the time. My career was cooking, my family was there and we only had one problem ---it's called money! Don't worry, in Vegas miracles happen to everyone ---sometimes!!!

After gallivanting (all four of us) around town playing tourist, I began to worry about this job. Now if you don't know me, then you don't know the meaning of the word worry. The closer it came to opening night, the more unbearable I became.

An example of how nervous I become before a big event is in my strange sleeping ritual. To sleep in the same room with me is out of the question! A roach scratching his ear would sound like a car backfiring to me when I'm fidgety. So my normal habit is to block out the noisy world by fighting fire with fire. A pleasant way to induce sleep without medication is to darken the room and turn the TV on the UHF band on a station number not currently being used. Now, you can lay back and soak up that beautiful sound of---hisssssssssss---full volume, of course! This will prevent trivial things like fire engines, airplanes and nuclear bombs from awakening a male version of Sleeping Beauty.

But the TV wasn't in the bedroom of the apartment and we couldn't move it because the kids wanted to watch it early in the morning before I got up. Alcoholics crave liquor and smokers crave cigarettes. This weird insomniac had to have his hissssssssss. Oh, a problem? Then there must be a solution. I purchased a small electric fan which I placed in front of a microphone. Amplified by a two channel Sony reel to reel tape recorder, this piercing, sound alike version of a sick single engine plane on either side of my bed, blaring through two speakers dangling from the ceiling and a supplementary 15 inch bass speaker cabinet at the foot of the bed, might let me relax. However, there is no guarantee unless the wife and kids agree to only whisper in the other room while Daddy snoozes. Shhhhhhhhhhh.......

Oh, sleep at last. Wrong! Somehow no noise could drown out that little voice in my head repeating every piece of material I had ever done on stage. Think? I was born with a computer between my ears which only functions in darkness in a reclining position. I've yet to know how Pam and the kids put up with my grumpy attitude during those days.

Oh, no! Opening night is here. I've spent all day hanging lights, fixing buttons, preparing props and the previous act is just finishing his last song. Have you ever swallowed a watermelon sideways? I knew I had. I'd just witnessed the entertainer before me being called down from the casino pit for his volume. And believe me, he wasn't loud with his one guitar, voice and little background drum machine. Good luck, Bill. Here goes a great One-Niter!

Quickly setting the stage for my show, I planted both of my column speakers flat on the floor and turned everything down to nothing. How could I impress an audience when they couldn't hear me? I could just imagine their comments like, "Look at that weird silent screen star performing his hit record!". My panic was overcome by the thought of being banished from Vegas after only one night by the management. The choice was simple. If the audience hated me, I still would probably get my two weeks work. However, if the management balked at my volume and the audience loved my act, it would be a nice trip back to Florida before the next sunset.

As you suspected, I am a big fan of quantity over quality. So I went for the l4 days. Leaving the audience looking like Beltone laboratory testers, my usual bits went great in the front row. People in the back evidently were conscious of my Marcel Marceau and the theater of mime impression. They stayed and you couldn't drag me off that stage. The casino pit sent me a note and my neck could feel the ax. But what's this? "Turn up the volume," the note stated, "We can't hear you!!!" So I kindly obliged.....carefully.....knowing full well it might be a trick.....!?! Rest assured, I wasn't paranoid. Nevertheless, I'm absolutely positive that everyone's been out to get me since before I was born.

From one good night to the next, the entire two weeks was a joy to work. Some evenings I played as long as eight hours straight. This kid wanted this job badly. I knew I had to go to St. Louis, but if they'd sign a contract, I'd be back in four weeks.

In the midst of all my struggles at work, I had one day off. Mentally, I had already reserved that night and $100.00 of my first pay check to provide a small reward for the lady that had helped me reach this destination. John Davidson was and always will be Pam's matinee idol and he was appearing at the Riviera Hotel. It is not often you have an opportunity to create an unforgettable moment in anyone's life. But how special it is when it's for someone you love. Davidson did a super show as usual. And when he went through the tables singing and kissing the ladies, he came straight down our row at the front. All the women were grabbing at him. When I turned to see if Pam was going to trip him as he pranced by, she was in a trance. She had died and gone to Heaven. But I was determined to lift her higher yet. So when LOVER BOY squeezed by me on his way back to the stage, I literally threw her head up to his face. He was none the wiser because he planted one on her like he was accustomed to doing to all his female fans. Wow! She almost flew over the table with wings that had sprouted since being smacked by the PRINCE OF DIMPLES. I would never trade anything for that look on her countenance and the feeling I knew she'd experienced for one moment in time.

On the same night we caught Wayne Newton's midnight show. Since Pamela was still on a cloud. I doubt if she even heard the closing version of "Daddy Don't You Walk So Fast". My whole trip to Vegas was worth just seeing her once in a lifetime dream become a dazzling reality to be remembered and cherished for years to come.

Back at work during the last couple of days, I was still getting the run-around on a return engagement. They say they'll let me know, but I'm in a lot of trouble if I'm out of work.

After putting the girls on the plane to North Carolina to visit relatives, I teamed up with my van to "Go East, Young Man!" St. Louis looked impossible on the map for my vintage vehicle...but I love a challenge. Everything is packed up and I'm off to the races.

Seeing Vegas in the rear view mirror and not knowing for sure whether a return would be granted was difficult to accept. But I had a contract in Missouri and my belief was that I had done the best job possible in Vegas. When there are no politics involved, talented, dependable people usually succeed. Singing and driving on Highway 66, I bounced along in my trusty, antique chariot refusing to think one negative thought except, "Where am I going to get more money to pay my bills that are due?"

When you pull into the St. Louis Hilton across from the airport, you know it's class because one of the owners is baseball great, Stan Musial. And when they put the entertainer up in an expensive chalet apartment, provide meals and offer complete assistance in every area, who complains?--Only a person with more important things on his mind like "When do I go back to Vegas?". Worry returns to this crazy man's computer mind.

Finally in desperation, I called the Silver City Casino and said I had to have an answer in the next few days or I'd book on, into Florida. Play the odds and you'll probably lose. Two days after the answer was due, I received a telegram confirming the entire arrangement.

Hallelujah!!!! One more week in St. Louis and my dreams can continue.

The days dragged by until Saturday night's closing...And I'm packed up and gone in one hour and twenty-five minutes! I had to rush because I had to make the trip in thirty-six hours. My Chevy van was all tuned up, had new tires and was sounding great with that kickin' 8-track system I'd recently installed. This baby was almost in perfect running shape. Good-bye, St. Louis.

After zooming through Oklahoma, Texas and New Mexico, I was now rolling into Flagstaff, Arizona early on Monday morning making great time. This trip would be a breeze! Already planning my schedule for when I got back to Vegas, I stopped for gas right outside of Williams, Arizona. The attendant made some smart remark about my studded snow tires, but I only heard the slot machines in the distance. Jumping jackpots! Here I come. Back on the road I began to speed up to hurry and reach my destination.

The sun was shining and my tape player was blaring so loud I couldn't even hear the roar of the van's engine. Coming around one curve, I remember hearing a thumping noise. Oh, these Arizona roads ought to be fixed right, instead of being patched up all the time. You can't even ride smoothly on these roads in a Cadillac, much less in a van. Another rattle and then another rattle began to get me a little worried. It must be that something had been knocked loose by this horrible pavement. So I pulled over to just double check the problem since I couldn't afford to have anything go wrong and delay my arrival.

Hopping out of the truck, I crawled under one side of the van's body to check the muffler and the long tail pipe.....you know, the one from the front to the back? Excuse me, I don't want to confuse you with my expertise in automobile technical terminology. I'm the first to tell you I don't know the difference between a point and a plug. Anyway, the weight of the load looked as if the pipe was hitting the underside of the van next to the right rear tire. Unconventionally, I simply tied the pipe to another piece of unknown metal with a standard guitar phono cord from my musical equipment. There!!! That would at least stop me from worrying about every little noise!?!

Back on the road the noise was gone and I'd almost forgotten about it until I saw a sign saying ASHFORK THREE MILES. Around another curve I guess the cord must have slipped because that old CLANG-A-LANG was back. Oh, I'd just check it in the next town. Truthfully, the noise was quite irritating. It's not much fun riding down the highway hearing a legion of housewives beating spoons on pots and pans out of rhythm underneath the rear section of your vehicle. I'd speed up and slow down in an effort to pinpoint the problem, but that KITCHEN SYMPHONY got stronger and more dynamic by the second. Finally, I could see the city limits to good old Ashfork and my heart began to feel safe and secure at last.

Pulling into the first station on the right, I noticed a Shell dealer who'd seen better days and evidently not seen a company representative in twenty years. But that didn't stop him from running out to greet anything on four wheels entering his asphalt domain. "Fill'er up!" I spouted, while getting out slowly so as not to arouse suspicion in the old man's mind about my immediate disaster. Casually, I began asking him about the noise, but I didn't receive much of an answer. He did agree to give it a listen. So I drove the van in circles around the station's property, uselessly trying to demonstrate those devastating sounds I'd heard.

Have you ever had a vehicle make a liar out of you? It's like labor pains going away in a hospital emergency room. The old man scratched his head and looked dismayed at me. Explaining to him the game the van was playing on me, in order to have me spend the night at Howard Johnson's Coyote Motel, I begged the perfunctory philosopher for more speculative advice.

Enter the old man's flashy assistant------a younger, more outspoken dude with degrees from the University of I-KNOW-IT-ALL and a masters in arrogant stupidology. For a moment I thought I was a guest starring in an episode of GREEN ACRES with Mr. Haney's brother and the foster child of Eb's sister. In my stupor, I allowed this white socks nerd to ride down the road a ways in my van and carefully listen to what little sounds the rattle decided to emit. Then Mr. Pride Without Brains pulled back into the station and gave me some MUMBO-JUMBO suggesting there was a problem that would require them jacking up the van for a closer look. As long as there is a sucker born every minute, some people will never have to work for a living. Jack her up, Fellows.

The preliminary examination was very intense. The staff of the Shell Memorial Garage tapped, twisted, tugged and tinkered with the entire rear end section of my poor, sick van. They looked like metallic internalists belaboring the duty of informing the family that the patient may have to be put to sleep. And then came their professional diagnosis in simple, everyday double-talk.

"Buddy, this truck is pretty old and they all do this kind of thing after a while."

"Do what?", I asked.

"Well, your third member is bad in your rear end and you'll have to have it replaced."

"A third member?", I inquired. "What have I got back there, a 4-H Club?" Obviously, this was not open mike night at the Ashfork Comedy Club and Garage, as my efforts to lighten up the Brothers Grim didn't make much of an impression. In fact, their faces went to a level three as found on page 86 of the funeral director's manual when they warned me of the danger of the whole van falling apart because of the malady of the truck's derriere.

"Can I make it to Las Vegas like this?"

"Oh, you're going to Las Vegas? What have you got in there? You must be a musician. I'll bet you have a lot of real expensive equipment in there!?!"

Never have I seen pupils dilate into dollar signs like this before. I now saw two men doing a quicker inventory with their eyes scanning through my windows, than a K-Mart manager trying to see what was sold in the last ten minutes during the blue light special on aisle six. Instantly these guys changed the whole symphony. Take away the score to HIPPIE GOES TO CALIFORNIA and quickly put up LAS VEGAS ENTERTAINER'S STOLEN EQUIPMENT FUNDS...THE ASHFORK DREAM OF INDOOR PLUMBING!

"You know, Son," offered the patriarchal, reflective thinker, "I could get that part for you from LA and you'd have nothing to worry about."

"Gee, that would be great. Exactly how long should that take?"

"It shouldn't take more than three or four days at the most."

"But I have to open in Vegas tomorrow night and there's so much I have to do before I go on stage."

"Well, you wanted my advice and you got it. You can try to make your trip as it is. And you'll probably make it," the old sage spoke with a lowered, disappointed voice.

Meanwhile, Dr. Kildare was putting back the pieces from the examination. Somehow, my faith in the good doctors was a little worn by now. But I paid them for the gasoline and thanked them for their time in helping me. Without a tear in my eye, I gladly bid them farewell.

"Good luck," chimed the chief elder. "I sure hope you make it. Be sure and let us hear from you when you get to Vegas." Maybe it was my imagination, but did I see him turn to his assistant and giggle as I drove off?

It was just me, the van and the rattle back on Highway 66 trucking down the main drag of lovely Ashfork around 4:15 in the afternoon. Oh, the noise was still there, but I knew I could make it. Outside of town, as I headed West, the incline was hard on the engine and it seemed to be a catalyst for the rattle. Should I pull over and look again? No---keep going!

The sign said EXIT, ONE MILE. Steeper and steeper the road became with no relief in sight. Then the warning noise began to affect the efficiency of the engine. It would hardly run. By then I was limping up the exit ramp praying for enough power to get to the stop sign. I made it, but my anxious foot continued to rev the motor.

Now which way do you go when Las Vegas is 200 miles West and Ashfork is 3 miles East? Hey! Good decision! I pulled back on the highway going downhill and it seemed much harder to get the truck to just move than before. So, limping over to the extra paved shoulder of the road, the van got slower and slower.

It's funny how prayer always fits in so nicely at a time like this. The fear of my being stuck out in the open desert for any type of vulture to prey on elevated the tension of the situation. At last the city limits of Ashfork again came into view. After running two red lights, I saw the Shell Memorial Garage within coasting distance. Yes, I'm rescued!

I immediately noticed the glowing faces of happy expectation as the rustic, senior resident and his boorish assistant came out to initiate the homecoming. Needless to say, this time they could hear the noise. And wouldn't you know they'd be so comforting and concerned?

"I was kinda afraid you wouldn't make it," sneered the suckling swain. "Pull it over here and I'll have another look," grunted the commander-in-chief.

He and his diminutive confidant shook their heads while undoing the back plate to examine further. Reaching inside part of the metal maze, the senior technician related complete approval of his previous diagnosis.

"How much will it cost to fix it just to run to Vegas?" I questioned.

"Oh, with labor, parts and minimal costs, I'd say about $800.00 to $1,000.00," said the old man. "You see, it's at least a two day job to take it apart and put it back together again."

"You mean it can't just be rigged for a 200 mile trip?" I persistently inquired.

"No way. It's almost like a heart transplant to replace this here third member," the immature accomplice judiciously contributed.

Well, there I was. They pulled the van over to the side to let me make up my mind. Suggesting I come inside the station, the owner began to come up with some sympathetic statements. I really wasn't in the mood.

Here was the problem. Las Vegas was 200 miles away and I had to get there by 12:00 noon the next day or cancel the gig. It could take a week to get the van fixed, plus lots of dollars I didn't have. In fact, I only had traveler's checks for a little less than $400.00 in the world. What I hadn't spent from the St. Louis job, I had forwarded on to Pam. After all I'd been through just to get Vegas to commit and then I don't show up. I don't think so!!! Would they be compassionate and just say that I could start on the second week of my contract? Get serious! Even with a contract in blood, your gig is no better than some drunk telling a pit boss to throw you out because your music makes him not feel like gambling anymore. This was a time to concentrate on the immediate decision to be made.

Now when you're in deep thought, you sometimes don't realize what's going on around you. I didn't, until I looked up and found myself the focal point of a vicious half circle. I was against a wall when out of nowhere, it seemed, four real-life Indian basketball centers had been recruited to join the Shell Memorial staff. These blue-blooded aristocratic gentlemen of high standing had been brought in to handle the physical therapy, if any was needed. The distinguished disorderlies appeared to be more interested in examining the driver of the troubled van than the vehicle itself.

They were all looking at me and endorsing each other's preposterous recommendations as to what I should do. It didn't take a mind reader to interpret those smoke signals coming from all the lighted cigarettes polluting the air inside the tiny 12 X 12 Shell Memorial office. If I didn't obey the message that was being sent my way, there would be a war dance tonight. And I'd get to be everybody's partner. When six, big, rough men talk, even E.F. Hutton listens!

I was cornered and I knew it was getting darker by the minute. So I posed another question, "How far is the closest town where I could purchase or rent another car?"

With all kinds of mumbled bafflements going on around me, I was quickly told my proposal was a stupid idea because the nearest place was fifty miles away. Then came the voice of the insightful antique charmer with today's piece of prophetic advice.

"Son, if it was me, I'd just sell my van and get someone to take me to Las Vegas. You could just leave all your stuff right here and come back for it when it's convenient." The Shell station super sage had spoken. And all of his AMEN CHORUS nodded in total agreement with this profound observation of unbiased wisdom.

In my mind I began to see the whole picture taking shape. If I left my ailing truck in Ashfork, there might be a slight possibility of locating each individual part of my dismantled vehicle by going teepee to teepee. Without a doubt, the dissected metal appendages from the bearded , white man's stripped van would be proudly mounted on the walls of every wigwam on the reservation by order of the Chief.

This would signify the tribal victory over the HILLBILLY HIPPIE who was forced to surrender in the battle of threats and intimidations on the skullish plains of the Shell Memorial.

Hey, I can live without the van, but I need my cargo to make a living. Perhaps, I should really explore all the options available. Either I allow these greedy Samaritans to have their way or I can anticipate the prospect of being the life or death contestant in tonight's bow and arrow practice along Highway 66.

Now when the sun has gone down and you're cornered by six opinionated, Native American males, all breathing down your neck, decisions come fast and easy. I just had to figure a way to get the equipment to Vegas.

"I've got a friend with a Cadillac and we have a U-Haul dealer in town," volunteered the perfunctory adolescent offspring.

How convenient and helpful------they had it all figured out for me. Who cares? I knew I had to make tracks since no one knew where I was or where I might disappear to. So I went along with the young dude's advice.

"Let's go look at the trailer," I interjected.

So we walked across the road to the rental place. This guy only had one 12' x 8' trailer left. And you'll never guess the one-way rental fee.

"$147.00?", I gasped. "Are you sure I'm not buying the trailer?"

"Take it or leave it. It's time for me to go home," spouted the rental clerk.

"Okay, I'll take it. Do the lights and everything work?" I questioned this obvious third member of Ashfork's upper class. Could this guy have been the culprit hiding in the rear end of my van causing all my trouble? As I concluded with all the documentation involved in engaging this trailer, my friend, the good old Shell doctor called the PULLEE. He explained my necessity in departing immediately. Now the pullee had planned to stay home that night, but for a measly $200.00 he could drag himself away. So we all came to terms and I now had a mule to pull the plow.

Arriving in a l965 Cadillac, the pullee wanted his money up front before hitching up to the trailer. So Dummy here paid this uncompromising equine hybrid and proceeded to transfer the equipment from inside the expired truck.

At this time it hadn't yet occurred to me what to do about my van. Would I have them fix it and then return to pick it up? Or would I sell it on the spot and leave them to their spoils of victory?

After loading up half of this giant trailer, I began to reach a conclusion. If I could only get the money I was paying out to get to Vegas by selling the van, I should be content.

Everyone tried to help me, but I threw musical equipment, tires, papers, clothes and other assorted junk all in one big pile inside this trailer.

All loaded up and ready to go, I turned to the aged tradesman and inquired, "Did you say you could use a van here at the station?"

"Sure could. In fact I could probably fix this one up real fine to do delivery service here in Ashfork," he enthusiastically chirped out.

"Well, I hate to see it go, but you'll take good care of it I'm sure," I smiled and awaited his offer.

"Tell you what, Son. This van's got some real problems, and I couldn't give you much for it in this condition. What would you be asking for it?" he inquired while making a wrinkled face and raising his shoulders up to his ears.

"Oh, your business is cars and you know what it's worth to you," I answered in a good natured tone.

"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do, since I know you've had some rough times here. I'll offer you $100.00 for it just as it is."

In my befuddled mind I thought he said $100.00, but I knew I must have heard wrong.

"Son, I said I'll give you $100.000. How about it? Had you rather we get it fixed and have you pick it up later?"

"No, Sir," I said looking into the eyes of all six hungry humanitarians now crowding around me with intimidation on their breaths. "I'll take the $100.00. Just let me get the title from my briefcase." We went inside and I signed it all over to him. Then I defeatedly collected my $100.00. What a great car dealer I'd make. Who cares? I just wanted to get out of there!

We locked the trailer. I said good-bye to my doleful van. Then I got into the Cadillac with the pullee and his son. All of the Shell Memorial team were out front for the big send off. I haven't seen that many teeth shining since the last Jimmy Carter family reunion. They should be smiling after pulling such a deal on me. I never looked back, because I didn't want them to see a grown man cry.

The pullee had to make an unscheduled stop at his house before exiting town. This was a classic abode with kids, bikes, bottles and dirt strung from the driveway to the living room. By invitation, I entered to try and speed up this man who now possessed my $200.00. Forcing myself to be nice, I declined food and drink and listened to the tale of no employment in Ashfork. The wife kept on hounding the pullee. So, in anger, he finally bolted from his paneled cave, intentionally slamming the screen door behind him. This was a true test of "Will absence make the heart grow fonder?" I don't think so.

Mumbling some familiar obscenities, the pullee proceeded to do what he obviously did best -----pull!!! In the back seat at first I tried to be fairly quiet. However, the thought occurred to me that suppose they were setting me up for a disappearance in the desert so they could salvage my equipment. They already had my van and the delay at the pullee's house would have given the Shell Memorial gang a chance to be out ahead on the highway by now. I guess I've seen too many westerns.

Breaking the silence, I cleverly interjected, "How's the weather been out this way lately?"

"About normal for this time of year," listlessly remarked the pullee.

Oh well, an intelligent question always deserves a classic answer. So we did a bit more talking and began to actually build a mutual feeling of trust and comradeship. But remember, I made a living by making friends with drunks and criminals in bars in order to survive not getting shot or beat up on stage. It was pitch dark on this road to Kingman, Arizona. You better believe I still kept an eye out for those Ashfork ambushers lurking behind the cactus. Wait a minute! I thought I saw something moving over there. It must have just been the reflections of the car lights on the sagebrush. Man, I wish we'd hurry up and get there.

All of us related we were a bit hungry, so Generous Moneybags Billy in an effort to better relations and survive, offered to treat all three of us at the Denny's Restaurant in Kingman upon our arrival. You know, the pullee did seem to pick up speed after my public declaration on the purchase of food.

Not only was I hoping to get my appetite satisfied at Denny's, but I left the pullee and his son plowing through dessert while I got to a phone.

"Pam, you'll never believe all of this and I have to hurry. I'm in a Cadillac with a U-Haul trailer in Kingman, Arizona on the way to Vegas. If you don't hear from me in 12 hours, call the Highway Patrol and have them locate me. Okay, did you get all that?"

My wife has always been super at getting messages straight. I only hoped she would remember all of this one. My life might depend on it!

"Okay, fellows, I'm ready to ride........How about you?" I'm sure my phony smile didn't fool anyone, but we were only 100 miles from Vegas now.

We zipped across Highway 93 and soon made our gallant crossing of Boulder Dam. That 1965 Caddie's brakes gave us all a thrill that I personally didn't need. How much further would it be? Hey, look! There's the lights. I can pull the trailer from here by hand.

"Alright," said the pullee. "Where do you want to put your trailer?"

Oh boy! Thinking only of getting to town, I'd failed to approach the problem of parking my metal, horseless carriage.

"Why don't you just head towards the Strip and I'll figure out a good place," I sputtered hesitantly.

After I gave the pullee directions to the Stardust and led him across the street to the Silver City parking lot, we finally arrived at touchdown. Hallelujah! I was alive and still had my equipment! A miracle indeed!

Just because I was broke and walking, there was no reason to be concerned. I knew in a week I'd have a new paycheck in my hands. A fresh chance to start over had now become a reality.

The pullee wished to gamble a bit and I agreed to baby sit his 16 year old after unhitching the trailer. I carted the kid over to Circus Circus and later met the pullee back at the car. Mr. Rent-A-Mule and his obviously adopted son dropped me at the motel downtown and I haven't seen them since. Good-bye, Ashfork!

Oh, no! How can I sleep? I just realized that when the pullee tells the Shell Memorial warriors the exact location of where I'm staying, I could be in for a visit. You can't be too cautious, you know. And I know I'll rest better after I brace this chair against the door knob. Wait a minute! I'll bet the pullee's on the phone right now to Ashfork giving them directions. What if they followed us up to Vegas? Let me just peek out the blinds.

To go to Chapter Three

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