What's The Worst That Could Happen?

At the hotel end of the lake yawned a great cave opening, closed by barred gates at all times except when the ships came out. These were great sailing ships, men-o-war and frigates, one-half life-size replicas of such famous seagoers as John Paul Jones’s Bon Homme Richard, Captain Kidd’s Adventure, and Sir Francis Drake’s The Golden Hind. Radio-controlled, these ships wheeled and ran, regardless of wind, their sails flapping every which way as they fired loud and smoky broadside after loud and smoky broadside, sometimes at one another, to the cheers of the crowds in the stands ashore. Some ships were even equipped with masts that would suddenly flop over and dangle, having presumably been severed by a musketball from somewhere or other.

These sea battles took place twice a day, at 4:00 P . M . and again half an hour after sunset, the earlier one being devoted mostly to wheeling and racing, while the evening show featured gaudy broadsides and at least two ships catching spectacularly afire.

The sound effects for all the battles came from speakers in the trees spaced around the lake, the same speakers that produced birdcalls at other times of the day, so that the effect was truly stereophonic, meaning you couldn’t tell exactly where any particular sound came from, but a loud boom occurring at the same instant that a ship out on the lake released a great puff of white smoke led most observers to conclude that the boom and the smoke were somehow co

The lake ranged from four to nine feet deep, and tourists were not encouraged to throw coins into it, but many of them did anyway, which meant a problem with the homeless, three of whom had so far drowned in their efforts to harvest some of the cash stippling the Gunite bottom. Still, the Battle-Lake was a major tourist attraction, at least as popular as that other place’s volcano, and so the occasional loss of a homeless person (who by definition was not a paying customer, after all) was a not unreasonable price to pay.

What a way to go, here in Paradise, your hands full of coins, your lungs full of recycled water.

When Brandon entered the spacious living room of cottage number one at three that afternoon, Earl Radburn in his knife-crease tan clothing stood at the picture window, with its view out over the Battle-Lake, at the moment peaceful, with the tall Moebius shape of the hotel beyond it. Hearing Brandon enter, Earl turned and said, “I don’t like that lake.”

“Most people speak well of it.”

“Most people don’t have to protect a fellow with ten billion dollars.”

How do you respond to a statement like that? Brandon looked around, and over in the conversation area he saw Wylie Branch sprawled in the angle of the sofas, one arm thrown out over the sofa-back on each side, one cowboy-booted foot up on the glass coffee table. His tan chief of security uniform was its normal neat self, but next to Earl Radburn’s air-brushed display even Wylie looked sloppy. And when he sat all casual and easygoing like that, like the rancher he would have been if his daddy hadn’t played too many tables too long here in Vegas—at other people’s joints, needless to add—when he seemed completely relaxed and amiable like this, it almost always meant he was utterly riled about something. Looked as though Earl had already put Wylie’s nose out of joint.

And now the damn man was trying the same thing with Brandon, who would not rise to the bait. Nodding at the lake, he said, “Well, Earl, if you’re worried about submarines coming up out of there to kidnap Mr. Fairbanks and take him away to Russia or someplace, make your mind easy. The lake has no outlet, and nobody with a submarine is currently registered at the hotel.”

Ignoring that, Earl came away from the window toward the conversation area, saying, “We got a very specific problem here this time.”

“Which us boys,” Wylie explained, smiling broadly the while, “ain’t up to handling by ourself.”

Earl, who really could be obtuse, took that statement at face value: “We’ll bring in whatever additional manpower we decide we need,” he said. “Wylie, of course, your people will be at the center of our defensive structure, since they already know the terrain.”

Wylie’s smile grew as broad as that cave mouth over there. “Us dogs will surely appreciate that bone, Earl,” he said.

Which snagged Earl’s attention for just a second or two, Brandon could see the faint loss in the man’s momentum, but Earl’s capacity for narrow concentration could sail past bigger boulders than Wylie Branch’s irritation. Almost immediately back on track, Earl seated himself at catty-corners to Wylie (but out of arm’s reach, Brandon noted) and said, “Sit down, Brandon, let me tell you about it.”

No point getting a

Ah. Although Brandon himself had never seen this side of the big cheese’s character, there had always been rumors throughout TUI that Max Fairbanks had an antic element within him that could suddenly erupt in messy or embarrassing ways. He waited eagerly to hear what the man had done this time, and Earl went on, “There’s a corporate house out on Long Island, off New York City—”

“I’ve been there,” Brandon assured him. “On several retreats and seminars.”

“Well, Mr. Fairbanks was there,” Earl said, “a few weeks ago, and he caught a burglar.”

Wylie made a surprised laugh, and said, “Well, good for him.”

“If,” Earl answered, “he’d left well enough alone. But he didn’t. He had to go ahead and steal a ring from the burglar.”

Brandon said, “He did—He stole from the burglar?”

With a low chuckle, Wylie said, “That happens, yeah,” which gave Brandon an unexpected look into the workings of the Gaiety’s security force.

Earl said, “The burglar escaped from the police, small-town cops, and he’s been after Mr. Fairbanks ever since, either trying to get his ring back, or revenge, who knows.”

“He must,” Brandon said, “have felt a certain humiliation.”

“It got him sore,” Earl agreed, “we’re sure on that much.”

Brandon said, “But what do you mean, he’s been after Mr. Fairbanks? A man like Mr. Fairbanks, nobody could be after him.”

“This one is,” Earl said. “Went back to the Long Island house soon as he escaped, but fortunately Mr. Fairbanks was already gone. So he got some kind of gang together, this fella did, and they broke into Mr. Fairbanks’s house in New York City. Missed him again, but both places they stole a lot of valuable stuff, antiques and like that. Then Mr. Fairbanks went to Washington, but he didn’t go to the apartment where he’d usually go, and damn if the fella didn’t show up again and steal some more stuff. Alone this time, or with others.”

Wylie said, “Persistent.”

“He’s making too much trouble,” Earl said. “That’s why Mr. Fairbanks put a secrecy order on all his movements.”

“I saw that,” Brandon said. “And I noticed, I wondered about it, the only exception is when he’s here.”

“That’s right,” Earl said.

Wylie laughed. “You’re go

Brandon, wide-eyed, said, “What? In my hotel? Earl, I protest! We have children here! Families!”

Earl was unfazed. “The fella’s coming this way,” he said. “Nothing we can do about that, Brandon, we know he’s on his way. It’s our job, protect Mr. Fairbanks and nab this burglar once and for all.”

“Here,” Brandon breathed, his voice hollow, his chest suddenly full of skittery nerve endings. “Here at the Gaiety.”

Wylie said, “Brandon, I know how you feel, and you know I got to feel the same way. Our first job is, protect the hotel, and the guests—”

“Of course!”