OUR NATION'S UNREST IS ALSO GROWING

In traveling from Burney to Klamath, as I frequently do these days, I have discovered that the displeasure with what is happening to our country is not confined to traditionally conservative strongholds.  People in Oregon, just like people in Utah, Nevada, Wyoming.. are increasingly aware that our country is moving in a dangerous direction, and we're not happy about it.  

It's not just the things that we read and hear about, such as the economy, jobs, housing values, immigration and growing government intrusion into our daily lives that have us worried.  There is a growing awareness that the fundamental values of democracy in our country are being eroded by those who were not born here and our government is failing to understand and do something about it.  And, I'm not speaking of illegal Mexicans as being the sole problem, either.  We have a rapidly expanding presence of Muslims as well.  I'm sure there are are other religious and political segments of our society that are increasing who wouldn't mind seeing our government collapse.  

But, our government seems unwilling to deal with the issue and we feel that our country is slipping away from us.  So, it's not just our inability to control the problems defined in my opening statements, it's also the undercurrent that we are attuned to, and we don't like it what we see.  Our fears are that, while we Americans would take to the streets and protest, as have the Tea Parties, but that others now within our society would inflame the unrest and take to violence. 

And, our President seeks the power to do to us what Mubarak has done to the Egyptians: to shut down the Internet, to take control of the media, to shut down telephones and cell phones?  For what purpose?  Just why would Obama want us to be unable to communicate with each other and to know what is going on in our country?

 

TALES OF THE WILD, WILD WORST: Billy Carter

Another Wednesday episode from days gone by.   

Welcome back pal. 

I had dinner with the prestigious Editor-In-Chief the other night, which brings to my mind that it's turkey season.  I do have some memories that are treasured because there are fewer and fewer people in this mad, mad, mad world who will ever have them.  Such as, how people many have ever plucked a turkey?  We'd all gather around the kitchen table and grab a handful of feathers and pluck to our heart's delight, while the smell of fresh-baked mince pie wafted through the house.  These days, of course, the yuppie thing to do is to boil the turkey in peanut oil. 

Have you ever noticed how, when you're in a really good and creative writing mood, one train of thought just railroads directly into another?  Put "turkey" and "peanut" together and, SHAZAM!  You have a great lead right into… "Billy Carter," as I promised in my last column. 

Now, this is actually the story of several turkeys.  In the fall of 1977, as I recall, the Teamsters Union was having a convention at the Aladdin in Vegas.  For obvious security reasons, it wasn't well publicized in advance that the guest speaker was to be Billy Carter.  Well, the day of his speech arrived, and I was sitting in my office in back of the cashier’s cage when Turkey Number One came running into my office.  She was a white cashier...  that is to say, all of the color had drained from her face. 

"What's wrong?" I ventured to ask.  It always makes me queasy to ask an obviously distraught woman what's wrong.  You never know what kind of an answer you're going to get.  She managed to stutter out that Billy Carter was at her window wanting to set up a line of credit. 

"So, where's Pat?" I inquired as to the whereabouts of Turkey Number Two.  Pat was the Credit Manager and he was an expert at shucking, ducking and loafing.  So, when she told me that Pat had just now left to go to the men's room, I wasn't the least bit surprised.  Well, I was the Collection Manager in those days and, besides collecting gambling debts, I also often had the privilege of doing Pat’s job.  "So, have him fill out a credit ap, get a copy of his driver's license, and clear his name through Central Credit," I instructed her.  "You know the drill."

"I can't." 

"Why not?"

"I'm scared."  Damned woman was 33 years old and she was being scared out of her wits by a gas station owner!  So, I told her to follow me and we galloped out into the cage and her window.  There, of course, stood Turkey Number Three. 

I knew he was Billy Carter the minute I set eyes on him; he wearing Levi's and the three goons standing behind him were in silk, pin-striped suits, obviously Secret Service types.  Those dudes all use the same barber, you know.  "Good afternoon, Mr. Carter.  I understand you need a line of credit?"  He just grinned, like a schoolboy about to have his first sexual encounter.  So, I asked him "How much credit would you like?

"Oh, maybe $2,500," he almost squeaked.  Sweat was starting to bead up on his eyebrows. 

"Okay, sir.  Please fill out this brief application and sign it and, while you're doing that, I need to make a copy of your driver's license."  The three goons were gazing back at me in obvious disbelief that I was asking Billy Carter for I.D.   

Billy himself was somewhat stunned.  "No one ever asks me for my driver's license," he responded. 

"Well, I am," I looked him square in the eyeballs.  So, he reached into his jeans and extracted a brown leather wallet that was so flat and thin that even a flea couldn’t get in.  From the wallet, he produced a Georgia driver's license, which reflected his address as being in Plains, Georgia.  There was virtually nothing else in his wallet; no cash, no credit cards, no dirty pictures.  He reluctantly slid the license across the counter and started to fill out the application form. 

After I copied the license and cleared his name with Central Credit, I went back to the counter and told him that his "line" was approved.  "But, I wouldn't take it all right now," I suggested.  "From what I can see, one of those jackasses standing behind you will probably roll you before you can move three feet.’  At this point, the three gumballs edged closer up to him and sneered at me.  Billy certainly seemed to enjoy the moment. 

A few minutes after Billy and his entourage vanished into the crowded casino, good old Pat, (Turkey Number Two), walked in and tried to put his magic charm on me.  "So, you gave him $2,500 and you didn't ask him how he was going to pay it?" he challenged. 

"Naw, I'm not worried about it," I shot back.  "If he doesn't pay it, I figure Jimmy's good for it."  Just for the record, Billy did pay it.  I don't know that he ever put a nickle in a slot machine; I think he just wanted some "flash" money. 

Several years later, one of my good friends from Los Angeles was gambling at the Sahara and he lost $10,000 in about an hour at the dice table.  I offered to send him and his wife to dinner in the gourmet room, the House of Lords.  After I made the reservation and wrote the comp slip, the Casino Manager asked me why I was buying the guy dinner. 

"He just lost $10,000" I replied. 

"That's the point.  He already LOST the $10,000.  You don't have to buy him dinner." 

And now, for my last turkey story.  Accountants have a habit of getting in the way of good business sense.  The bean counter at the Sahara had penciled it all out, how he was going to save the joint $75,000 a year.  In his brilliance, he had discovered that it cost 12 cents less to serve a draft beer than a bottle of beer and that we gave away so many thousands of beers a year to gamblers.  Hence the rule that, from then on, gamblers could only be comped to draft beer. 

One of my players, Jerry from Fort Worth, was in town gambling at Binion's.  He decided to drop by to see me at the Sahara.  Of course, he ended up on the dice table and promptly blew almost $15,000.  I'm sure his mouth and throat were very dry at that point; mine would have been.  So, he asked for a bottle of Bud.  The cocktail waitress politely told him he couldn't have a bottle, but he could have a draft. 

Jerry went bonkers.  He screamed at the Casino Manager that he wanted a BOTTLE of Bud, and the Casino Manager rebuffed him by saying he couldn't have a bottle, but he could have a draft.  One rule of the gambling business is that you never want to tick off a really good player when he still has money in his pocket.  Jerry still had about $500 from his $15,000 credit line and he fired up the dice; it  only took him about thirty minutes to pay off his markers and get $50,000 ahead.  It’s as if the story was written in the wind.  He then backed away from the tables and walked  straight toward the cashier's cage to cash out. 

"Hey, where are you going?" the Casino Manager yelled after him. 

"Back to Binion's to get a bottle of Bud."  They canceled the draft beer rule about two minutes later. 

So much for the turkey season.  What’s next?  Let's see…. Maybe you'd like to hear about a guy who used to come into town and risk millions of dollars at a time.  I'll tell you about him next week.  Until then, remember that the livers are yours and I get the tail. 

THEY'RE ALL MOUTH AND NO ASS

Those guys in Washington run around saying how we have to fix health care.  They scurry from room to room, vowing  to straighten out the immigration problem.  They posture on the Capitol steps and tell the world how they need to fix the economy.  Tuesday, the President is going to tell us for the 49th time how we have to get more jobs for our people.  

Yet, these are the things they've been talking about for months, years... perhaps decades.  And just what has happened?  Nothing.  

It's time to quit talking and to do something besides intruding the government nose further into my life.  All they do is talk and posture, talk and posture, all of the time growing government and extracting more from my wallet.  Sometimes I get so sick and tired of hearing the needle stuck on the record, over and over again the same old song and dance routine... I could just scream, but they have a government noise ordinance, you know. 

How did we ever let ourselves get into this mess? 

THE DEMOCRATS AND HEALTHCARE

It seems to me that, if the Senate Democrats are digging in their heels and saying there is no way they will allow the repeal of ObamaCare,  they are saying in the same breath that they DARE you to vote them out in 2012. 

TALES OF THE WILD, WILD WORST: HOWARD HUGHES AND ME

Every Wednesday, we continue to bring you past articles by the Unknown Scribbler that were previously published in the FLAT RABBIT PRESS in northern Nevada.

Welcome back pal.

Vegas has lost its magic. What a way to start a column! But, believe it or not, there WAS once upon a time a real and very vibrant place in the desert where movie stars hung out and dreams came true. Over recent decades, it's been changed from a center of mystery and intrigue into a rather simple and blasé Disneyland for adults. Today, Vegas is just a big pile of concrete, asphalt, and money grubbing corporations whose stockholders would shoot and kill "lady luck" in a heartbeat, if they could get past their pedigreed Harvard business degrees to find her. And all of that is a fact.

I promised to tell you about my experience with Howard Hughes. Let's face it; in those days, Howard Hughes WAS Las Vegas. I'm not going to lay a story on you about how I bumped into Mr. Hughes on the Desert Inn Golf Course at 2:00 AM where we compared tennis shoes, and I'm not going to cajole you with a tale about meeting Mr. Hughes on a Nevada desert road in the middle of the night, either. Nor, will I tell you that he named me in his last will and testament. But, he did leave me with a very interesting tale.

When I started to work for the Desert Inn the first time, in 1972, Mr. Hughes had long since departed from his penthouse suite. I’ve been in that suite, but that's a story for another day. Anyway, I think he had in fact also departed the Bahamas and was ensconced in a fancy resort in Nicaragua, as I recall. I'd been working for the Flamingo and had been hired for a special project by Summa Corporation, (Summa meaning "The Great One"). Mr. Hughes, of course, was Summa. I don't even want to tell you about the background investigation they ran on me for this gig. Those guys in those days were extremely security conscious and had half of the nation’s former FBI agents on their payroll. Hell, they even looked up my third grade teacher! Thank God she didn't remember the day I whacked her fat fanny with a spit wad!

The job was a pilot project to see if it was feasible to try and collect old gambling debts. Yeah, it's amazing, but some guys didn't pay up on their markers, regardless of the potential ramifications, if you get the gist. Well, I was handed a cardboard box full of "written off" gambling debts and told to have at it. Wow, have I got a whole lot of stories to tell out of that box! Some would curl your toenails all of the way back to the quick.

One account was a $1,500 tab due from a guy who, at the time, was a top security guy for Hughes Tool Company in Culver City. The bill was due from around April of 1967, when Mr. Hughes bought the Desert Inn and moved into that penthouse suite. So, the debt was five years old when I picked up the phone and called the guy. (Scribbler’s note: I need to interject a funny side note. One night, Howard’s toilet seat broke. They called in a maintenance guy and the only color toilet seat available in town at that hour of night was pink. So, Howard ended up with a pink toilet seat on his white throne. He was not a happy camper,).

Now, catch this response from the Hughes Toolco security guy. He had the unmitigated gall to tell me that the bill was owed by Howard Hughes himself! My first reaction was, “horse manure.” His line was that he had been in the group that took over the Desert Inn premises, and that he was in charge of the security details. He went on to suggest that Mr. Hughes had asked him, in the middle of the night and just after the sale was consummated, to go down to the dice table and make some bets for him. Mr. Hughes had supposedly called down to the cashier cage and arranged a line of credit for this joker to use.

Well, what was I to do? The fellow was still employed by Hughes Tool. He had everything to lose and nothing to gain by trying to BS me. So, I sashayed on up to the General Manager's office and laid the story on Fred Gee. A few minutes after I told Fred the story, he managed to quit rolling around on the floor in laughter and said that he'd put in a call to Los Angeles. Hughes had maintained an office on Romaine Street in Los Angeles for decades, wherever he went. Nadine Henley was his personal and corporate secretary and had her office in that location.

A few days later, Fred asked me to come up and see him. He handed me a check for $1,500. It was drawn on "The Romaine Street Account," and signed by one Nadine Henley. "Mr. Hughes wants to know who the son-of-a-bitch is who's going around collecting gambling debts that are five years old," he said.

Over the years, I've read a lot about Howard Hughes. You should, too. From those readings, I have no doubt that he used those exact words. And, I discovered that Nadine Henley had been Mr. Hughes' right-hand financial person for many, many years, and that the Romaine Street Account was his personal piggy bank.

The death of Mr. Hughes shook the gambling community. There was a lot of concern in the ranks about what was going to happen to his gaming empire, and to the rest of his holdings, for that matter. Within hours after the announcement of his death, all offices of the Desert Inn and other Nevada holdings were searched by security agents trying to find any evidence of a Last Will. My office was searched as well. You have to believe that, because he wasn't my family member, I had already elected to toss his will that named me as his sole heir into the shredder. I'm really that kind of a guy. Really. Honest.

Yeah, I've got a whole ton of stories to tell. I can go on and on and on. Here's one that's not a gambling story.

I was in the Air Force, stationed at Beale AFB near Yuba City, California. I was in the Civil Engineering Squadron and had a variety of duties during my time there. The Civil Engineers do everything from routine maintenance to laying out airfields to building houses…you name it. Well, the base got a new Wing Commander, and he was fussy. He didn't like flies in his office, and he had a few. So, he called on the Civil Engineering Squadron to come out and spray his office.

The next day, he walked in and found some flies in his office. So, he called Civil Engineers and raised a ruckus. Next day, same thing. This went on for about a week. Finally, his secretary called the Civil Engineering Squadron Commander and politely suggested that the Wing Commander was about ready to put someone on a barbeque spit. Well, the boys in the pesticides department got out to his office and gave it full throttle.

The next morning, the Wing Commander opened the door to his office to discover that the pesky flies were indeed gone and… that the Formica top of his desk had sprung up off the wood and curled into a very tight ball.

Catch me in the next issue and maybe we'll talk about me and Billy Carter. You remember him, don't you? Wish I had a can of Billy Beer to stick on E-Bay right now!

FOGGY THOUGHTS

It's been foggy in Burney lately.  I kind of like it that way, because you can't see the politicians ducking through the trees. 

Throughout recent history, maybe the last 25 years or so, the left-wing radicals have practiced the art of shouting down anyone who disagrees with their agendas.  Certainly in the last two decades, that art has gravitated throughout the Democratic Party, so that all Democrats have been shouting down those who challenge them on any subject.  And, when the shout-downs have been ineffective, they have resorted to name-calling and downright wicked allegations.  

Don't get me wrong; I'm not backing Sarah Palin at this point.  I really want to see who the strong candidates a year from now.  But, when you look at the way they demonize her, that is a classic example of how they conduct themselves.  She's been called everything from a whore, to insane, to brainless, to an animal killer and to one of those responsible for the Tucson tragedy.  Nancy Pelosi, by the way, terms the Tucson tragedy as being "accidental murder."  

Frankly, their conduct is mean-spirited and their dialogue inspires violent reactions.  The Republicans and others have tried to ignore them, but their evil rhetoric has grown so far out of proportion to reality that Americans from all walks of life are now getting back in their faces.  In an ages-old tactic, their response is, "Why don't you guys calm down and have civil discourse?"  Past experience leads me to believe that is just a ploy to shut us up.  If they really wanted civil discourse, they would come to the table in Washington with open minds, ready for compromise and ready to lead the nation in a responsible and responsive way. 

I think Americans are fed up.  I think Americans are ready to take the Senate and the Presidency back from the Democrats in 2012.  You noticed that I did not use the word "Republicans,"  I used "Americans."  There are many, many main-stream Democrats who are just as tired of the yelling, screaming  and name calling as the rest of us are.  

Maybe the radical, left-wing liberals are about to have their comeuppance. 

TALES OF THE WILD, WILD WORST: BUGSEY SIEGEL

The New Year continues with its Wednesday columns of my illustrious past and the FLAT RABBIT PRESS.

Welcome back, pal.

I previously tantalized you with a promise to talk about Bugsy Siegel and Howard Hughes. Due to space and time constraints, I'll have to limit it to Bugsy for this column and to talk about Howard in the next. Don't worry about Howard…. He's way, way up there in the belly of a Spruce Goose someplace, pacing back and forth in his tennis shoes and without a dime in his pocket.

For now, let's just discuss bugs. There are some desert bugs that don't crawl out every season. It's a fact that some varieties require an absolutely perfect environment to hatch. One species of gnat lays its eggs in the summer sands and disappears, sometimes for decades, until things are "just right."

Back in the mid-'80's, 1984 if memory serves me correctly, it was a particularly wet winter in the desert, followed by some of the prettiest desert blooms I've ever seen. It was also the year of the desert gnat. One night, all hell broke loose in Vegas; the town was totally packed with fight fans. I think Hearns and Leonard might have been going toe-to-toe at Caesar's Palace.

Well, the damned gnats hatched. Attracted by the lights, they headed straight for Vegas and got sucked into all of the major strip hotel and casino air conditioning systems in the middle of the night. Billions of them, and I do mean billions, made their way into hotel rooms, luxury suites and "eye-in-the-sky" crawl spaces. The next day, floating gnat carcasses were literally two inches deep in ice buckets and there was one helluva lot of ticked off customers.

Vegas also has what they call water bugs. I think that they're a cross between a cockroach and a beetle. They're black, and squatty, and big, and they just love to munch on gnat carcasses. Sure enough, water bug herds exploded in population. They seemed to be most at-home in the security crawl spaces above casino floors. In fact, the Chief of Security at the Landmark opened up the crawl space there and shined his flashlight in; the bugs were so thick that it reminded me of a giant, black carpet waving in a breeze. Yuck!

Casino ceilings have many places where such bugs can crawl out, such as light fixtures and air conditioning vents. One night, there was a blonde bombshell playing roulette. I mean, she was a 38-26-36, 5'10" movie star stuffed into a size 5 dress. Yeah, things were poking out everywhere. Well, just like half of the casino execs in the joint were doing, I was watching her gamble when a black bug fell out of the ceiling and onto the roulette wheel. The dealer, in one sweeping and poetic motion, snatched a tissue from a nearby box, reached into the wheel and extracted the bug. I think we were the only ones who caught that action, that dealer was so cool.

The next bug, however, landed in a slightly different and more provocative spot. The blonde was leaning over the table and placing her bets when all of the sudden…. Kerplunk! Straight down the bodice of her dress and deep into her cleavage it went. Ooooo, baby! I haven't seen a body twist and turn like that since Earl Campbell played on Super Bowl Sunday! Oooo! She made a whole new meaning for the words, "Fox Trot!" Even Fred Astaire couldn't have kept up with her.

Which, of course, brings me to Bugsy.

Vegas has always been like a big carny game for adults. You've got the hucksters, the shucksters, and the barkers, all with their big come-ons. It's one publicity stunt after another in that town and one particular night at the Flamingo was no different. There they were, Flamingo President Burton Cohen and supreme huckster Geraldo Rivera, about to open up what was being touted as Bugsy Siegel's secret floor safe. Was there really a million bucks stashed in there?  And, I was watching that malarkey on national TV. Oh, mercy me!

A friend of mine, Fran Sunblade, had been the Food and Beverage Auditor at the Flamingo when I worked there way back in my tender youth. One day, he'd invited me into his office, which was one of several cubicles stretched down a hallway near the executive offices. "Get down on the floor and pull that carpet back," Fran told me. And there it was... what would one day become the central point of a national television circus... Bugsy Siegel's floor safe. The area where Fran had his office used to be Bugsy's office suite.

"Who in Hell was Bugsy Siegel?" I'd asked Fran. I really wasn't kidding, but I guess he THOUGHT that I was kidding, because he almost fell off of his chair and doubled over in laughter.

The lid was unlocked and, upon further inspection, I discovered that it was empty. Well, if you've been reading my columns to any extent, you know by now what my next move was. I had Fran hand me a blank piece of paper, upon which I wrote, "What in the hell are you looking in here for?" I signed it, "Bugsy," dropped it into the safe, and put the lid back on.

Several years later, Burton and Geraldo both hyped and re-hyped the night they would open Bugsy's safe at the Flamingo. You certainly must know that I was salivating over that. I could just picture Geraldo reaching deep, deep into the safe and extracting my note on national television. Well, dammit, you know that the real joke was on me because, there was nothing in there. They really didn’t have to crack the safe open, either; the combination was broken and there was no way you could lock the cover. So, maybe they'd already read my note before the show. Or, maybe, Fran had played a joke on someone and forgotten to put the note back in. Who knows? Only The Shadow knows. What a disappointment that night was to me; I’ve never been the same since.

As for Howard Hughes? Yeah, I collected $1,500 from him, back in 1974 when I was collecting "written off" gambling debts. If you really want to hear that story, my friend, yer gonna have to read the next issue, 'cause I'm out of space this time.

As I sit here and polish off this column, my eyes settle on the picture hanging there on the wall. You know the picture; it's the one of me with Mike Tyson. Yeah, the one with his arm around my shoulders. The one taken in the Crown Room at the Las Vegas Hilton the night before Tyson won his first major fight. I didn't tell you about that story? Well, pal, it's coming your way in a FLAT RABBIT PRESS, soon. And yes, I still have both of my ear lobes. See ya! I'll bet you thought Mike got one ear lobe and my ex-wife got the other one, didn't you?  


See ya next week pal. 

CORPORATE AMERICA IS JUST AS BAD AS GOVERNMENT

I live in a nice, small town in northern California.  You would think, living out in the sticks like this, that we would be immune to the crap going on in our government and the economy, but we're not.  The jobless rate here is well over 25% and several small shops have gone out of business.  But, that's not all.  

We have discovered that corporate America is just as bad as our government has been as far as being responsive to consumers and citizens.  Just like their cousins in Washington, they are doing things to us and against us and not telling us.  Imagine my surprise to wake up one day and discover that Northern Tissue is half an inch more narrow than it was the day before.  Where on the package does it say that? 

Scott Tissue, still with 1,000 sheets, now has 9.4 square feet less total tissue than it did before.  That means they either also made it more narrow or they made the individual sheets shorter.  Where on the package does it say that?  

The list of consumer goods that has downsized is almost endless.  Orange juice has fewer ounces per container.  Cheese packages have fewer slices.  Dish soap has fewer ounces but the same sized container.  Everything from hot dogs to body lotion has been affected.  But, where on the packages does it say that?  

Well, one thing is the same... the price.  Yes, you still get to pay $1.25 for the dish soap, it's just that the soap container now has 30 ounces instead of 32.  Well, yes, that does mean that the price per ounce went up, but where on the price label does it say that?  They are flat out hiding the fact that they are charging you more; for example, if you use 100 rolls of toilet tissue per year and the size is now 9% less, next year you will need 109 rolls to do the same job or you're going to lose a lot of friends.  

The companies that have been challenged about this practice virtually all say the same thing: if they packaged the same amount in the package, they would have to raise the price of the merchandise because your friendly government has kicked off inflation.  By reducing the amount of contents, they say with tongues in cheek, they don't have to raise prices.  You'd think they were selling Obamacare. 

Check out the sizes and the price per unit the next time you go to the store.  This is deceptive advertising and packaging, pure and simple, and corporate America needs to hear our displeasure load and clear.  Give them a call, but be prepared to go through the electronic answering machines and to be on hold for half-an-hour before you get to speak with the Indonesian customer service rep. 

ANOTHER GREAT TALE OF THE WILD, WILD WORST

Another Wednesday, another breathtaking tale from my past, a la Flat Rabbit Press:

Welcome back, pal.

When I left you at the end of my last column, I was face-to-face with the business end of a loaded 45. That's the main reason this column will be a tad bit more serious than most. But, and make no mistake about it, every tale told in this column is true.

I ended up in that predicament while trying to collect a gambling debt for the Desert Inn in Vegas. The guy owed the joint $15,000 and he'd made no bones about the fact that he had no intentions to pay it. As customary, I'd not bothered to tell him that I was coming; I didn't want to give him any advantages in the showdown.

Due to bad weather, the plane was diverted to the other side of the Bible-belt state and I had to rent a car and head east. I have to admit that I was more than a little surprised when I reached his place of business. It was an old, three-story brick high school building, surrounded by two chain link fences, (each neatly trimmed with razor wire), and sporting a couple of not-so-friendly German shepherds rambling around between the fences. I had to drive around the whole block to find a spot where the fences ran up against the building to allow for deliveries.

There was a roll-up metal door and loading area with a dutch-door to the right and a sign that specified deliveries were to be made between 9:00AM and 1:00PM only. It was 3:30. I rang the buzzer anyway. I had to ring it several times before the top half of the door opened. I was in the remnants of a hurricane, mind you, and soaked to the gills.

Wouldn't you know it? The guy was all dressed up in a dark and pin-striped suit, just like in one of those "Godfather" movies. I felt conspicuously awkward and out-of-place as I stood there in my orange sharkskin, genuine polyester, wet sport coat. "Whaddya want?" he growled.

"I want to see Freddie," I said, as I slipped my business card to him. His eyes squinted when he read the card.

"Wait here!" He slammed the door shut in my face and I waited for a another very long time before the door opened again. He directed me around to the front of the building and told me to go through two gates after I heard the buzzers, then to go up the steps and to ring a bell by the door. I inquired as to what the dogs had in mind, and he told me they'd already had lunch.

There was another bimbo waiting for me after I rang the bell. I tracked after him into an old classroom; the floor had been painted navy gray. At the other end of the room, there was a beaten-up old desk with a gray-haired and bespectacled geezer sitting behind it. He was plunking away at an equally old adding machine, one of those fancy pull-the-handle styles. Mr. Muscleman with the bulge in his suit jacket pointed to the only other furniture in the room, a folding metal chair, and directed me to sit.

I sat. In fact, I sat there for a very long time, watching that old buzzard at the other end of the room plunking away at his damned adding machine. My clothes even dried out. I tried several times to engage him in conversation, but the plunking was incessant and he never even acknowledged that I had spoken. Eventually, Mr. Muscleman returned and ordered me to follow him. Out in the hallway, another suited twit started following behind me.

"You packin'?" he demanded, when we reached the top landing on the third floor. I told him that I wasn't, but he patted me down anyway. Then, Muscleman led me to a big, solid oak door and buzzed away at an intercom on the wall. "He's here," he announced into the microphone. A third greaseball opened the door and I was almost pushed inside.

It was another old classroom, but poles apart. This room had cherry wood, plush red carpet, red velvet drapes, and a huge mahogany desk at the opposite end. The guy behind the desk, also wearing the traditional pin-striped suit, was smoking a big fat cigar and fingering my business card. I was escorted to a chair across from him and shoved into it. "Whaddya want?" he growled. Well, at least they all spoke the same language.

"You know why I'm here," I stoically replied. To which he slowly opened a desk drawer and, suddenly… I was eyeball to eyeball with that loaded 45 I've been telling you about. It was an automatic. I knew it was automatic because it didn't have the little round thing that holds the bullets. I knew it was loaded because I saw the guy slip the clip in and pull the slide back. Needless to say, I watched with some interest as he laid it down on the top of the desk.

Do you know," he growled, "you're in the middle of one of the biggest porno distribution centers in the world.  I own the sheriff, the police chief, and the judges in this town.  All I have to do is just reach for the gun and blow your ***** head off and no one, I mean no one, will ever know what happened to you."

I think that may have been an implied threat, I’m not sure. I leaned across the desk and stuck my face directly into his. "The boys at the Desert Inn won't think too nicely of you if I don't show up back there tomorrow morning, alive and with the 15 grand.  So, now what, Freddie?"

After a seemingly interminable time of total silence, he told the three bimbos to wait outside. "You got guts, kid," he told me as he turned around in his chair, opened a wall safe behind him, and removed three bands of C-notes. He shoved them across the desk at me, and continued, "You've got exactly 60 seconds to get your ass off my property.´

Well, exactly 48.36 seconds later, I had left his office, elbowed my way past the three suits, flown down three flights of stairs, bolted out a locked and guarded door, squeezed through two fence gates while smiling at the dogs, flashed around to the side of the building, thrown myself into my rented car, and driven, (with some haste), two blocks down the street…. I did all of that in the midst of the residue of one of the biggest hurricanes ever to hit the East Coast. Even now, years later, the mere thought of those moments causes me to gather skid marks in my shorts.

A week or so later, I was paid a visit by the Secret Service. They told me the bills were all counterfeit.

I was going to tell you about Bugsy Siegel and Howard Hughes, but I've run out of space. My next column will be a real dilly, my friend; don't miss it. Oh, by the way, I found the answer to the question I raised in the last issue. 'Twas Major Hoople in "OUR BOARDING HOUSE." Egads, congrats and a complimentary spit-wad to Edgar Frump.

Oh, and yes… I did go back and get the $15,000… in real money. They all thought it was hilarious; I didn’t. 

THE HERMIT'S 2011 PREDICTIONS

THE HERMIT’S 2010 PREDICTIONS

1. Harry Reid will not win Nevada's Democratic nomination to be reelected to the Senate
2. Nancy Pelosi will win reelection in November, getting a paltry 51% of the vote.
3. More than 50% of the Congressional seats up for reelection will have new people sitting in them after November.
4. Republicans will make only marginal gains in November.
5. Obama’s approval rating will drop below 30%
6. The stock market will plummet again in the first quarter of 2010.
7. Unemployment will surge in the 1st quarter of 2010.
8. Sarah Palin will run for and win a Congressional seat.
9. There will be a major terrorist attack on U.S. soil.
10. Obama will not produce his birth certificate in 2010. 


With my stellar record for 2010, how about 2011?  

1. The Seattle Mariners will not win the World Series.   
2. Obama's approval rating wall fall below 45%.  
3. The Health Care Bill will not be repealed.  
4. Joe the Plumber will not run for President.  
5. Harry Reid will not switch to the Republican Party. 
6. Nancy Pelosi will say something utterly stupid.  
7. Barack Obama will say that it's time he turned his attention to the national economy.  
8. Charlie Rangel will whine about being mistreated.  
9. North Korea will attack South Korea. 
10. Ahmadinejad will thumb his nose at Obama.  


Something tells me I'm going to have more correct predictions than last year.  What do you think?