"We're set," the bellhop told him, dark eyes scanning cautiously around the lobby.

"All right. They're due within the hour. We'll be waiting for a clear shot. No one makes a move without my word."

"You've got it." He moved along, secure that everything was ready.

The sweeper was one of Bernstein's "specials," handpicked with an eye toward ruggedness and military backround. There were forty of them on the premises this night, each one with weapons on his person or within his reach, all prepared to make their move on Bernstein's word. It was a private strike force primed for action, with Abe Bernstein's finger on the trigger.

He had taken pains in the selection of his commandos, gleaning out the best available from mercenary sources over eighteen months of careful shopping. He had supervised their training personally, hiding them among a crop of young Olympic hopefuls working out at the exclusive health spa that he owned in Southern California.

Procurement of their arms, the final honing of their lethal skills in combat situations, was accomplished in conjunction with the neo-fascist paramilitary gangs who populate the Southern California desert with their training camps and arsenals, Forty soldiers, right — each finely tuned and with a special duty to perform when Bernstein gave the signal. Teams to close the hotel off from outside access, others for the hotel wings, prepared to move from room to room until they had eliminated every Eastern gunner. More to handle any stragglers in the restaurant and lobby area, making it a clean sweep. When Bernstein gave the word, they would transform the Gold Rush briefly into the biggest morgue in town.

But not just yet.

He had to wait until the final guests were bussed away to alternate hotels, their places taken by gorillas who were circling McCarran Airport at that very moment.

When everyone was present and accounted for — the imports and Spinoza's coterie of shaky allies on the local front — then Bernstein would be ready to unleash his strike force. And he was looking forward to it with relish.

There was a great day coming for Las Vegas — and for Bernstein. He was about to do a favor on behalf of justice. Poetic justice. And it was going to be a pleasure.

Frank Spinoza took his time about emerging from the elevator. He would be at a disadvantage if he seemed too eager, too uncertain of himself. He could not afford to let the new arrivals think that he was unable to hold down his end. He had to deal from strength or they might find a way to ease him out along with Kuwahara's kamikazes.

Spinoza watched as the first contingent of arrivals from the East grouped up around the entrance, waiting for the porters to unload their bags. Outside, the rest were quickly piling out of airport limos, unwilling to expose themselves on hostile soil until they knew the layout. Spinoza planned to let them get their fill of action as soon as possible, but first he had to play the role of host to the assembled hunters. The lobby was a wasteland now, devoid of paying guests, with only Bernstein's few employees and the new arrivals. The place was deathly quiet-calm before the storm-and Frank Spinoza realized how much he missed the jangle of casino action from the big adjacent room. Right now, without the players his casino was lifeless — like a tomb.

Spinoza pushed the morbid image out of mind and crossed the lobby, Paulie Vaccarelli trailing at his elbow. Time enough to get the players back when he had dealt with Kuwahara and the frigging Yakuza once and for all.

Spinoza was a dozen paces out when one of the Manhattan soldiers peeled away and moved to greet him, two more falling in behind but hanging back a yard or so, their attitude conveying mute respect. Spinoza took the offered hand and shook it, matching ounce for ounce the pressure in that grip. He kept his face impassive.

"I'm Frank Spinoza. Welcome to Las Vegas."

"Jake Pinelli. Glad that we could help you out. No problem with the rooms?"

"My house is yours."

"Okay. Just let us settle in, and we can all get down to business."

"Good."

A movement on his flank distracted him, and Spinoza saw a runner huddling with Paulie, speaking to him in a whisper. Paulie heard him out, dismissed him, and then, before Spinoza could direct the New York crew chief to his suite, the houseman cleared his throat, discreetly claiming Frank's attention.

"Say, Frank..."

"Hang on a minute, Paulie. Now..."

"You got a call, boss. On your private line. It sounds important."

"Dammit, Paulie..."

"Never mind," Pinelli interjected, frowning. "We'll find our way. Go take your call."

"I'll have some food sent up. You name it, Jake."

"We caught some dinner on the plane, but thanks. I'll just wait till you get your action squared away."

Spinoza, fuming, followed Paulie back in the direction of his private office. He would have to watch Pinelli closely, make damn sure the snotty bastard did not start to think he was in charge.

Too many chiefs were bad for business, and Spinoza meant to be the only honcho at the Gold Rush.

Hell, he meant to be the only honcho in Las Vegas. Alone inside his office he relaxed a fraction, slumping down into his high-backed chair and punching up the lighted button for his private number as he lifted the receiver to his ear.

"Yeah?"

Momentary silence on the other end, finally broken by a voice that was distinctly male, distinctly cautious.

"I needta speak to Mr. Frank Spinoza." There was a trace of Eastern Seaboard in the voice, which he could not identify with any more precision.

"You got him."

"Yeah? I mean, good evening, sir."

"Who am I talking to?"

"Just call me Joe from Jersey. I'm connected back there with the Drucci family."

Sure, it fit. The Jersey twang.

Spinoza was not taking any chances with the caller being who he claimed to be.

"I've got some friends in Jersey," he allowed. "How's old Vinnie Giacovelli doing these days?"

Hesitation, but the caller caught on fast.

"He died six months ago. You ought to know that, sir."

"Okay. So, Joe from Jersey, how'd you get this number?"

"I guess you'd say it was a backup, sir. A kinda last resort... just covering all the bases, like, you know?"

"Somebody said this was important."

"Well... yeah, it might be. Anyhow, I thought I'd better tip you when I heard about your troubles."

"Troubles?" Spinoza was hard pressed to hide his irritation.

"Uh, yeah. That's kinda why I called. I thought you oughta know... about what I heard."

Spinoza kept his tone civil now with an effort.

"I guess I don't follow you, Joe."

"Well, I picked up a broad downtown this evening what a looker, man, the jugs on this one — anyway, we stopped into this restaurant she likes. A Japanese place. Me, I don't care much for all that seafood shit, but hell, whatever turns 'em on, you know? I mean..."

Spinoza interrupted him.

"Where is this place?"

"On Paradise. It had some kinda flowers in the name."

"The Lotus Garden." It was not a question.

"Yeah, that's it. Well, anyhow — where was..."

"In the restaurant."

"Oh, yeah. So we're just sitting there and this babe's sucking up the fish, but me, I'm concentrating on dessert, when I make out these two Nips talking shop behind me in another booth."

"Go on."

"I wouldn'a paid attention in the first place, but I heard some names that rang a bell, you know. These gooks were naming you, Liguori, Johnny Cats — some others I don't know for sure."

"What did they say?"

"Well, that's just it, sir. They were switching in and out with Japanese and some damn kinda broken English, so I couldn't get too much, but..."