Free A Crossworder's Gift by Nero Blanc Page B

‘Santa’s Little Helper’ wardrobe. I don’t know how she keeps from popping out of it, I really don’t.”
    â€œHmmm,” Rosco replied. “That’s something to look forward to.”
    â€œYep, the colder it gets in the East, the skimpier the outfits seem to get—go figure. Yes sirree, Bob, there’s no place like Vegas for the holidays.”
    Belle smiled again, albeit a bit stiffly. However, despite Angie and her female cohorts’ singular apparel, Belle was truly pleased to be in a locale that hadn’t rushed the season. Unlike the New England shopping malls, there were no Christmas trees, no menorahs, no plastic icicles dangling from the chandeliers, no giant snowflakes, reindeer, merry little elves, or Santas anywhere to be found—not yet, at least. Here was a place that seemed to take every season according to the calendar—finish up with one before taking on the decor of another. She found it refreshing.
    â€œSo what brings you nice young folks out to Las Vegas on this sunny Friday afternoon? Business or pleasure?” the bellhop asked as he maneuvered their luggage down a long corridor toward Cactus Cal’s front desk. The passage was lined with nickel slots; over half the machines had players perched anxiously before them. Both Belle and Rosco became mesmerized by the flashing lights; the whirling cartoon pictures of cherries, bananas, and plums; the chime of bells, whistles, horns, and electronic keyboard crescendos—and the shrieks of the latest winners. The couple had never seen—or heard—anything like it; the bellhop was forced to repeat his question.
    â€œYou don’t look like seasoned gamblers to me,” he added. “You have what I call that ‘starry-eyed-rookie-can’t-wait-to-get-at-it’ gaze. So what is it, business or pleasure?”
    Simultaneously Belle said, “Business,” while Rosco voiced, “Pleasure.”
    The bellhop laughed. “Well, whatever. Enjoy your stay. I’ll get your car keys from valet parking, and have your bags transferred to your room as soon as you’re finished checking in.”
    The desk clerk, a short, ball-shaped, middle-aged male, was decked out in a more modified “Puritan” garb than the concierge—his attire being dark trousers, a high-buttoned black jacket that rounded over his ample belly, a white jabot, and a miniature version of a Pilgrim’s tall buckled hat, which he wore tilted Stetson-like on his head: twenty-first-century Nevada meets seventeenth-century England. He greeted them with a warm and friendly smile, adding a laconic “Howdy, folks” that didn’t seem in keeping with the implied severity of his costume.
    Rosco returned the smile and said, “We have a reservation for three nights. The name is Polycrates.” He placed his credit card on the counter.
    The clerk entered the name into his computer and waited for information to appear on the screen.
    â€œHmmm,” he eventually said, “I don’t seem to have anything here under that name.”
    â€œP-O-L-Y-C-R—”
    â€œYes, sir, I’ve spelled it the same as it appears on the card.” He continued to stare at the screen. “Nope … Sorry, sir, but I—”
    â€œThe reservation should have been made by the Blue Diamond Wildlife Shelter.”
    â€œNope … I don’t have Blue Diamond in here either—”
    Belle stepped forward. “Perhaps, you have it under my name … Annabella … Belle Graham?”
    The clerk’s fleshy face jerked upward. “Oh, sure … yes, of course , Miss Graham. I didn’t realize … I mean, we’ve been expecting you. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you on the spot. Everyone was so excited to hear that you’d be staying with us for a few days. I mean, my sister and niece sure were … They have every one of your crossword collections.