by AnonYMous
Then Wolfie took us on a tour. A few students were being given practical instruction by men in dark suits, but there seemed to be no classes as such. Indeed, there were no lecture rooms. I was expecting to see departments dealing with subjects such as Accountancy, the History of Gambling, the Mathematics of Probability and Tourist Management, but I could see no sign of any of them. When I asked about a library, Wolfie told me it was upstairs. We would see it later.
Then we were guided to a wood-panelled elevator. It was old-fashioned with a cage and it was operated by yet another African tribesman. This one was called Marcus. On the walls were prints of safari hunting scenes. On the next floor we walked down a plush corridor to a room filled with television monitors. There were several gentlemen in sharp, shiny suits and slicked-back hair who were watching everything. One of them was introduced to us as Shorty. Since he was well over six feet tall, I gathered the name was intended to be ironic. Apparently he was in charge of security in the casino.
‘Glad to know you,’ Shorty said extending his hand, but without diverting his gaze from the monitors. ‘I’ve got a bastard down there who’s cheating.’
I looked over his shoulder and thought of Sir William Dormouse and old Mrs Catnip. ‘You mean he’s counting cards?’ I asked.
‘Nope … nothing like that. Look, you can see. He’s got a friend standing behind the dealer and he’s holding up a mirror.’ I stared into the screen and caught sight of a flash of light. Then there was a commotion. As I watched both men were grabbed by a group of tribesmen and they disappeared. Within a minute it was as if they had never been.
‘Gotta go to the office and nail ’em,’ grunted Shorty and, followed by two acolytes, he left the room.
‘What about the library?’ I asked brightly.
It was next door and it was not quite what Emma or I had expected. There were many more DVDs than books and they were all pornographic in content. They were even classified under such headings as ‘art films’, ‘sado-masochism’, ‘girl-on-girl’ and ‘classics’. In the last section I found a copy of the Decameron and the Memoirs of Fanny Hill, so, in all fairness, there was some nod to culture. I took a deep breath. ‘That isn’t quite what I meant, Wolfie. I don’t know who this is for, but I was expecting something a bit more, uh … academic for your students.’
‘Oh this is the guests’ library. The students aren’t too hot on reading and writing, are you sweetie?’ He turned to Divine de la Rue who was pattering behind us on her high heels.
‘I just want to please the customers,’ said Divine again.
‘So how do you to assess the students if they don’t read and write?’ I asked. My head was spinning, but I was doing my best to adjust my ideas of a college education.
‘Well that’s your job,’ said Wolfie. ‘That’s why they’re going to St Sebastian’s, to get their BAs.’ He made an expansive gesture with his hand. ‘Luigi wants all his employees to be graduates. That’s the point …’
‘But how have you ensured up to now that they achieve the requisite standard?’ I asked.
‘We have a rule. You’ve gotta please the customer. If there are no complaints, then they’ve done good.’ He winked at me again.
‘I think St Sebastian’s is going to demand a little more than that …’ I began, but Wolfie interrupted.
‘Time to go upstairs,’ he said. He seemed embarrassed. Turning to Emma, he suggested that she wait in the library. ‘It’s quite comfortable there. Plenty to read …’
‘Oh no! I want to see upstairs,’ Emma was robust. ‘I’m finding it all most interesting.’ Wolfie was not happy, but he summoned the elevator again and we proceeded on our journey upwards.
When the doors opened, a curvacious redhead wearing an exceptionally brief chambermaid’s outfit and extraordinarily high heels was waiting for us. She had a feather duster in her hand and she wriggled as she smiled at us. She led us down a dimly lit passage which was painted a deep red. It was like going back into the womb. We were ushered into a sitting room lined in leopard skin velvet. There was a small bar at one end and there were several soft sofas and armchairs. Rather tasteful erotic paintings lined the walls.
‘Shall I bring in the girls?’ asked our hostess, looking doubtfully at Emma.
‘Just get us a drink, sweetie,’ commanded Wolfie. The chambermaid busied herself at the bar. She was as adept at the task as Divine had been.
‘Oh but we would like to meet the students,’ I said.
‘I imagine this is where they learn tourist management skills?’ asked Emma, entering into the spirit of things,
‘Sure do!’ said Wolfie. ‘But they’re busy at the moment.’
From his tone, I did not feel I could ask exactly what they were busy doing so I started a conversation on the logistics of bringing students over to St Sebastian’s for a semester. Wolfie was uneasy throughout. He waved the chambermaid away as soon as we were furnished with further drinks and looked at his watch.
‘Gotta go soon,’ he said. ‘Leftie’s gotta pick up Luigi from the airport at twelve so I’ll take you back to the Ziggurat first. You’ll be having dinner with him at eight in the Hanging Gardens Restaurant. It’s on the top floor of the hotel.’
‘I’m sure we will enjoy it, said Emma.
When we returned to our hotel room, Emma and I had a serious talk. ‘You can’t go on with this, Felix,’ she said. ‘That was no more a training college than the Moulin Rouge is. It’s a brothel with a casino attached.’
I nodded. ‘I think you upset things rather. Wolfie was all set to let me have my pick of the girls on the top floor …’
‘Good thing I was there then! The whole thing’s deplorable. What are you going to tell Flanagan?’
I shook my head. ‘I just don’t know. He’s quite determined. I don’t think he’s going to be deterred. Honestly, the next thing will be a degree in Pole-Dancing. How in the world did I get mixed up in this?’
Emma was sitting on the bed flipping through the Ziggurat promotional magazine as we talked. She stopped. ‘Oh, God No!’ she said, pointing to an article.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
The article was entitled ‘The Best New Year Ever’ … ‘It describes how for New Year’s Eve women are supposed to wear rabbit ears and men sparkling top hats,’ my wife informed me.
‘Dear heaven!’ I shuddered.
‘Look at the picture.’ There was a large photograph of a group of Ronald and Nancy Reagan look-alikes all kitted out with celebratory head-dresses.
‘Perhaps they’ll provide everything in the restaurant. What does the magazine say about the Hanging Gardens?’
‘It’s impressive. It’s been awarded four stars by some French gourmet. It’s also incredibly expensive …’
By a quarter to eight Emma and I were ready for dinner. Emma wore her best chocolate brown velvet evening dress, which matched her eyes, and I climbed into my dinner jacket. We had to catch the Assyrian dhow to take us to another part of the hotel and another glass elevator took us up to the restaurant. Wolfie and Sylvester were waiting for us. Emma was indeed given a pair of rabbit ears on a velvet head-band, and the three of us were furnished with the requisite top hats. I was glad neither my students nor my theological colleagues could see us. Then we were taken to be introduced to Luigi Mancini.
He turned out to be a large, dark-haired figure wearing a bright red bow tie and a cummerbund. Standing in the centre of a group of Italian-looking men, he was flanked by two dodgy-looking figures who were probably bodyguards. I was not drawn to him, but he was certainly civil. He shook hands with me; then he bowed to Emma, kissed her hand and said, ‘Welcome to Vegas.’
‘Thank you for having us,’ I replied.
He put his arm around my shoulder and guided me to a nearby plate glass window as Wolfie introduced Emma to the other guests. The city sparkled below. ‘You see those hotels?’ he said pointing to all the gigantic buildings around us. ‘We built them; we own them; and now your
university is going to train us to manage them. Vision! That’s what it takes! Vision!’ He lifted up a glass of champagne. ‘To the future!’ he said.
At dinner I was seated between him and his wife Frankie. She was a tall brunette with a bouffant hair-style and bright red fingernails. She was wearing a low-cut white dress and sported the biggest diamond ring I had ever seen in my life. I wondered if it could possibly be real. She asked me if I had tried my luck in the casino.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Luigi very kindly offered to start us off with a thousand dollars’ worth of chips, but the tax authorities in England won’t allow us to accept that sort of gift.’
She smiled understandingly. ‘The tax people aren’t easy,’ she said.
I looked at the menu. The food was French and clearly exquisite. I thought I might as well enjoy myself and told the waiter that I would have whatever my wife chose. She knew my tastes. Frankie was amused. ‘Gee,’ she said, ‘it’s lovely when married people know each other’s feelings. Luigi always depends on me to choose his clothes.’ I looked at the red cummerbund and thought it would be more tactful not to comment, so I smiled instead.
She was very easy to talk to. She explained exactly how everyone around the table was related to everyone else. ‘Except Wolfie of course. He’s not Italian, but you’ve got to have a Jewish accountant. They’re so sharp…’ She stopped herself, looked at me and went red.
I laughed. ‘I am Jewish, but I’m not sharp. I was always hopeless with money. I don’t think Luigi would want to employ me in that capacity.’
She smiled back at me. ‘Well Wolfie’s dad worked for Luigi’s dad so there’s a long family connection there too. He’s an only child, you know, and he’s always lived with his momma. Old Mrs Goldberg was nice, but she sure kept Wolfie under her skirts if you know what I mean.’
‘No chance of his getting married then?’
Frankie chuckled. ‘Oh Jeeze no! She saw off any girl real fast. I gave up fixing him up with dates years ago. But things may be different now. She had to go into a nursing home a couple of months back and I don’t think she’ll last much longer. Wolfie’s such a good son. He visits her every day, but she doesn’t know him any more …’
‘So he’s ripe for the picking?’ I suggested.
‘Sure is!’ grinned Mrs Mancini.
The food was superb. Emma chose well and I enjoyed every mouthful. However, I was surprised to notice that neither Sylvester nor Luigi was eating any dish advertised on the menu. They both had huge steaks which looked identical to what we had eaten the previous day at Sylvester’s house. Presumably that was what they liked and they were sticking with it.
After dinner, there was dancing. The band was excellent and I thought of Magnus on his cruise. I wondered how he was getting on with his twin tasks of waltzing with the octogenarians and finding out about Crispin Chantry-Pigg. The whole trip to Las Vegas was certainly an experience, but I was not sure that I wanted to repeat it. I found the company disconcerting.
Finally midnight struck. We had drunk too much champagne, been doused in bonhomie and streamers and had wished each other a Happy New Year repeatedly. It was time to go to bed. Next day we were going home. ‘Well,’ said Emma, as we were undressing, ‘an interesting couple of days … New Year with the Mafia …’ and she started to hum the theme from the Godfather again.
I was very much afraid she was right.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Father Chantry-Pigg Is Unwell
We left Las Vegas the next morning. Wolfie and Sylvester saw us off at the airport and we parted with expressions of mutual esteem. We had already arranged that they would be visiting the university in March with Luigi for the annual St Sebastian’s Feast. We hoped that the old squash courts, the site of the new Golden Arrow Casino, would be ready for the laying of a foundation stone. In my own mind, however, I was determined to bring the whole absurd enterprise to an end.
By the time we arrived home, there was very little of the Christmas vacation left. While we’d been away, Imogen had had a very successful few days at the Women’s Refuge. She felt that she had a better grasp of the whole issue of domestic violence and was ready to write her dissertation. To her relief, there had been no further visit from Helga Flanagan. I always felt miserable when it was time for her to return to Cambridge, but I knew that she was happy there and, from all accounts, was doing very well.
Emma had a great deal of work to do. She was immersed in a new programme on Lenten cookery and she needed to spend several days in London. I was left to my own devices. As soon as the new term started, I made an appointment to see the Vice-Chancellor to tell him about our adventures in Las Vegas. However, Flanagan was currently away at a meeting of the Vice-Chancellors’ Association, and his secretary told me I’d have to wait until the following week.
Therefore it was not until the Monday that I arrived in his office. In an affable bellow, Flanagan shouted at me to come in and I found him bubbling over with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve just got rid of that boring bloke, Ralph Randolph,’ he said.
Ralph Randolph was the Professor of Chemistry. I had hardly ever spoken to him, but I knew him by sight. He was a rather dour figure, invariably dressed in a dark suit and emitting a strange, vaguely metallic smell. ‘Is he old enough to retire?’ I asked.
‘Man has no vision!’ pronounced Flanagan. ‘No idea at all! We can’t go on with Chemistry. It costs a fortune and it attracts fewer and fewer students. So I gave him the opportunity of a lifetime. I offered to redecorate all those space-consuming laboratories and start a brand-new degree programme: Celebrity Studies. He isn’t exactly a ball of fire, but even he couldn’t fail with a project like that … But he’s got no imagination. He said that if he couldn’t teach chemistry, he would go elsewhere. So I accepted his resignation before he had a chance to change his mind.’ Flanagan roared with laughter.
‘What are you going to do with the other two chemists?’ I asked.
Flanagan wrinkled his brow. ‘Don’t know yet! They’ve all got tenure dammit, so I can’t just throw them out on their ears. I’ll have to think of something …’ Then the sun came out and he turned his attention to me. ‘Just the man I wanted to see,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’ He picked up a large piece of paper which was on his desk and handed it over. ‘This came from that artist fellow, what’s-his-name, Julian Bosie, this morning. It’s just a preliminary sketch to make sure we like it!’
I found myself gazing at a very realistic picture of St Sebastian being pierced with arrows. He had a body builder’s physique and there was an expression of ecstatic torment on his face. ‘Jolly good, isn’t it?’ the Vice-Chancellor was admiring. ‘It’ll be quite an eyeful when it’s twelve feet high and hanging in the Great Hall.’
I took a deep breath. ‘It’s certainly memorable,’ I said.
Flanagan sat down behind his desk. ‘Now tell me all about Las Vegas. How did you get on?’ he asked. ‘Was Sylvester hospitable?’
‘Oh yes.’ I could at least be enthusiastic about the trip. ‘Yes. We were treated royally and I met Luigi, his brother-in-law, who is in charge of the whole Mancini empire. Everyone was extremely kind and generous and they gave us a delightful time.’
‘Splendid!’ boomed Flanagan, ‘Well that’s all settled then! I knew you were just the bloke for the job.’
‘Well …,’ I began hesitantly. ‘It’s not quite as straightforward as that…’
‘How do you mean… not as straightforward?’ The Vice-Chancellor frowned. ‘I hope you’re not going to be a wet blanket, Felix. We can’t afford to let this opportunity slip through our fingers. There’re plenty of other universities just waiting in the wings for this. What on earth’s troubling you?’
‘Well for a start … there isn’t really a training school to go into partnership with …’
‘What do you mean … there isn’t a training school. Sylvester told me quite specifically that they have a fair-dinkum training school. Absolutely the best. It
’s called the King Michael Club or something.’
‘The King Midas Club.’ I hesitated. ‘Yes, Emma and I visited it.’
‘Well there you are then!’ said Flanagan.
I was determined to make my case. ‘But it isn’t a training school. There’s a small casino, but there are no lecture rooms and the library is not for the students. It’s just a collection of pornography for the guests.’
‘Pornography, eh?’ Flanagan was interested.
‘The girls do learn the practical skills of being a croupier and they all seem to know how to serve drinks and things like that, but the top floor is a brothel! It’s not a college!’
Flanagan laughed, ‘Really Felix, you do exaggerate …’
‘Honestly, I’m not. Emma came with me to see the place, and they were embarrassed and tried to keep her downstairs. But she insisted on visiting everywhere and we were asked if we wanted to look over the girls. We can’t possibly go into parternship with them.’
‘And did you select a girl?’ Flanagan leered at me.
‘No, I certainly didn’t. Emma was there.’
Flanagan gestured for me to sit down in the armchair opposite his desk. ‘You shouldn’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘What they do in Las Vegas needn’t concern us.’
‘But, Vice-Chancellor,’ I protested. ‘I don’t think you’ve got the picture. It was just like the Godfather films. For all I know, they may be dealing in drugs and they’re certainly running a prostitution skam.’
Flanagan was growing impatient. ‘Well that means there’s all the more for St Sebastian’s to do on the academic side. Perhaps we can insist that the students stay for two terms rather than one?’ He thought about this for a moment and then shook his head. ‘I don’t think Luigi Mancini would take it. He’s paying us a couple of million as it is.’ He turned his attention to me again and he spoke sternly. ‘You must understand, mate. When I took this university on it was looking bankruptcy in the face. The government is giving us less and less money and is insisting that we attract more and more outside funding if we are to survive. The Mancini organisation is outside funding. We can’t afford to turn down this chance and there’s an end to the matter.’
