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Busted! by Jordan Holder The woman in a t-shirt and jeans next to me snapped her gum and decided to stand after drawing a seven. I looked at the eight and five I was holding, glanced at the several face cards I could see on the green felt table in front of the other players and the dealer, and brushed my pair of cards toward me. The dealer flipped a card from the shoe. A nine. Busted! Damn. Well, one could hardly expect to win by standing on 13, not when the dealer was showing a ten. The dealer raked the chips in front of me towards her. Next hand. I put up another bet from my dwindling stack of red chips; the blues were long gone. A seven and a three, with the dealer showing a six. A player on my right busted with a jack, drawing to a king and four. I asked for a card. A queen. "Stand," I said, laying my cards down. Twenty might be pretty solid. The dealer flipped over her card - - a five. Eleven. She drew a four...and then another six. Twenty-one. Rotten, rotten luck. Next hand. The dealer had an ace showing. "Insurance?" she asked. I couldn't really spare the chips and shook my head no. But sure enough, she had a natural. More of my chips crossed the table to her side. I had just enough for one more hand, unless I moved to a lower-bet table, but then I'd be winning less when my luck changed. Odds were only slightly less than even in most games, so it _had_ to be time for me to come out ahead. I bet all I had. She dealt me a jack and a two. The player on my right had a ten and an eight and stood. I whisked my cards toward me. She dealt...a king. Busted again! Now I was _really_ busted. Nothing but pocket change, which I sure wasn't going to trust to a slot machine, considering those odds. Dollar machines paid about 97% or even a bit more, but putting a few quarters or worse, nickels, into a machine was a 92% return at best -- maybe less than 90%. My current streak of bad luck had to change soon, but it would need more help than I could get from the one-armed bandits. Maybe craps would be kinder than blackjack had been. I headed for the cashier windows, which were at the far side of the casino. Passing the line for the buffet, I walked through the ranks of beeping and chattering slots and video poker machines, the latter outnumbering the former these days, paying little attention to the racket of the ones being played and the frequent sound of coins being spat into trays for those lucky enough to get a winning combination. Temptation for those cashing out to play just one more dollar. And one more after that. Not a temptation for the dollar-less like me. At this hour of the late morning there were no lines at the cashiers. I walked up to one of the windows where a bored-looking young woman sat on the other side of the cage. Most casino employees seemed bored by their jobs, which were, after all, repetitive. "Yes, sir?" she said. "I'd like to extend my line of credit. Another $50K. George Marsh is the name." "Yes, sir. Just a moment, sir." She pressed the button to signal the credit manager. A green light came on over her cage; she took the pause as time to bundle some bills and take them back to the vault. I just stood there and waited, as I had several times earlier in the two weeks I'd been gambling in Las Vegas. A couple of minutes later, a husky man in black trousers, a black vest, and formal shirt with black tie came up behind me. "Mr. Marsh?" "Yes," I said. I noticed that he was accompanied by a couple of other men, not so well dressed, perhaps because it would have been too expensive for their even huskier frames. He was not the average- looking credit manager I'd dealt with before. This didn't look good. "Please come with us." Definitely not the usual quick signature I'd gotten earlier in my trip. The man in the vest beckoned, and led off. I followed him, with the two others following me, just behind me, one on each side. Despite the "please," it was clear that my compliance was only superficially voluntary. Amid the racket from the slot machines and confusion of the casino floor, though, our little procession received virtually no attention at all. He led us around the cashier cages, up some stairs, and into an office area. One wall of the office we entered was a one-way window overlooking the casino floor. Probably an old-fashioned leftover from the earlier days before the omnidirectional cameras in the ceilings and other security devices had been installed. He gestured toward a hard chair in front of the desk and sat down in a more comfortable one behind it. The silent pair closed the door and stood near it without being told. "Call me 'Ray'," the man behind the desk said. "Mr. Marsh, I'm sure you know very well why you're here in my office. Of course, we can no longer extend you any further credit with San Felice Casino. Indeed, it appears that the credit we have provided already was a mistake. Our investigation of Marsh Enterprises reveals that it is essentially bankrupt, although the fact was well-enough concealed, and Altoona is distant enough from here, that it took most of two weeks to discover. Your house was already mortgaged beyond its market value trying to prop up the company. Your trip here was some kind of last-ditch effort to obtain funds to keep the company alive, wasn't it?" If I thought I was busted before, now I was _really_ busted. They knew everything. "I'm afraid so," I admitted. "In fact, Mr. Marsh," he continued, "other than the clothes and suitcases in your room upstairs, the five-year-old car parked in our garage, and whatever you might have in your pockets, you have no assets at all." I said nothing. "Isn't that true?" he prodded. "Yes." "So that means you have essentially swindled San Felice out of..." he paused and looked at a slip of paper he took from his pocket, "...four-hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars." He frowned. "That's a lot of money. Do you have any plans for how you are going to repay the casino?" "No," I said. "But don't you already have the money back? I mean, it all went right into the casino." It was a desperation argument. "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, Mr. Marsh. You would not have given back your winnings from the casino, had there been any, would you?" He didn't wait for an answer, but pulled a sheet of paper out of a drawer and shoved it across the desk at me. "Sign this." I looked at it. It was basically a statement of the facts he had just recounted. A confession in other words, with room for witnesses to sign. I wondered if one of the muscle men was also a notary public. Hysterical thought. "What if I don't?" "If the district attorney for Clark County has to make a case based on evidence, without a confession, he is likely to justify the additional effort by being much harsher in his sentencing demands. There is no doubt that you would spend a very lengthy period enjoying the hospitality of the State of Nevada. Might I mention that we do not air-condition our prisons?" I didn't know if that was true or not, but I also had no desire to find out first-hand. Nevada is pleasant and comfortable, if a bit dry, six months of the year or so. The rest of the time, it is a branch office of Hell. "So what difference does it make if I sign it? I'm still going to go to jail anyway." "Not necessarily." He gave a strange sort of smile. "Let's say that the district attorney might never see this piece of paper under the right circumstances. If you sign it, that is." "What do you mean?" "It is bad for business to have the law become involved with one of our customers, no matter how richly deserved. Not only does it damage our image with customers to be seen as vindictive in pursuing legal remedies, but we prefer it not to become known that a patron was successful, however briefly, in committing a fraud against us, and a legal proceeding is inevitably public. We have other ways of dealing with financially embarrassed patrons." "Other ways? You mean..." I trailed off. "Mr. Marsh!" He raised his voice sharply. "Whatever you have heard about Las Vegas forty and more years ago, I assure you that times have changed. Bodies are no longer dumped in the desert, nor are deadbeats shot in the knees." He continued in a lower tone. "These things, too, are bad for business. Nor do they pay the bills. This is the Las Vegas of the new millennium. We have more sophisticated means of ensuring that we are not cheated of what is due us." "I'm afraid I haven't the foggiest idea of what you are talking about. I have no way to repay you, and you want me to sign a confession that will surely put me in prison for fraud. What other alternative is there?" "Sign this confession. If you do not, Jim and Mike will take you for a ride to the police station as your next stop. When you have signed, I will explain further." There seemed to be no alternative. I signed the paper, which was duly witnessed by Ray and Jim; Mike indeed proved to be the notary. Ray took the paper and locked it in a nearby file drawer, after which he made a brief phone call letting someone know that I had signed. "Very good, Mr. Marsh. I thought you would see reason if things were explained to you in unmistakable terms. Consider that piece of paper to be your application for employment with San Felice Entertainment Corporation." He smiled with his lips, but not with the rest of his face. Especially not his eyes. "Employment?" I said, completely astonished. "Certainly. You can't _pay_ off your bills, but you can _work_ them off." "But I don't know anything about the hotel, casino, or entertainment business. How can I pay off nearly half a million dollars working as a waiter or some such? My business was plumbing and construction supplies, but I don't know how that can be of much value to you. Unless you are building a new casino hotel?" I said hopefully. "Actually, Mr. Marsh, we have a... let's call it a 'training and indoctrination' program... that works like magic, one might say. We haven't had too many offenders of your magnitude go through it, but the ones that did have become very profitable employees of San Felice." "But... but... what kind of job am I supposed to do? Where? What about my life in Altoona?" "Mr. Marsh. All will become clear. As for Altoona, we will arrange for the sale of your home, adding any mortgage deficiency to your debt to us, and our lawyers will wind up Marsh Enterprises at no charge to you, since bankruptcy lawyers get paid first. Your phone, power, water, cable television, and whatever else will be cancelled, your mail forwarded here, and no one will think anything of it. In case of any direct inquries, you will be acknowledged as an employee of San Felice, but 'on assignment' somewhere out of the country where you cannot be reached. You had no close connections in Pennsylvania, anyway; we have learned that your business absorbed nearly all your time for the eight years since you finished college. Maybe if you had been less committed to it and more willing to let it fail, you would not have embarked on your foolish mission here. And we would not be having this conversation. But water over the dam, eh? Now that you have signed your 'application for employment', all this has already been put in motion. There is no going backward." "So now what?" "The next step, Mr. Marsh, is that you will meet with our resident general manager who will introduce you to your new assignment." He looked at his watch. "Almost one PM. Our GM is expecting you at 4:00. Why don't you have lunch -- on the hotel, since that is an employee perq -- and then return to your room until it is time for your appointment? Jim and Mike will see that you arrive there on time." It was clear that the proposed agenda would not be tampered with in the slightest. The condemned man ate a hearty meal, as the phrase goes. The chit 'Ray' gave one of his henchmen was good at any restaurant in the hotel, so I picked the best. I assumed that I'd be eating -- as an 'employee perq' -- in a company cafeteria from now on, at least until I'd paid off $475,000 or more. Even if I could save $20K a year, I'd be here until I was close to retirement age. Suppose I'd said 'no'. Would ten years in the slammer have been better than twenty or thirty as an employee of San Felice Entertainment? Even employee cafeterias had to be a mile better than prison food, and hotel uniforms beat pink jumpsuits by that same distance. Slavery might be illegal in the US, but San Felice had found a way around the Constitution's 13th amendment. I think the term is 'debt peonage', which is likewise illegal, but much harder to enforce. I thought over all of this during lunch, for which I had selected the French restaurant just off the section of the casino with the baccarat tables. The maitre d' seated us well away from the most desirable part of the room, but I was in no position to complain. The heavy white tablecloths nicely set off the glass of burgundy I ordered, and I selected a full ? la carte meal from appetizer and soup through the dessert cart. It was indeed a hearty meal. We ate in complete silence. I tried speaking to each of Jim and Mike, but they were apparently under orders not to talk to the prisoner. Maybe they never talked at all. It would have been nice to have some kind of hint about the employment position planned, but if they knew, they weren't saying. I finished my soupe a l'oignon gratinee, entrecote sauce perigueux, and gateau, but the unknown prospects ahead kept me from really enjoying them very much. A pity; I'd never had the funds to enjoy such restaurants often, but I just couldn't concentrate on the chef's efforts to the extent they deserved. I was ready to go back to my room by some time after 2. Jim and Mike accompanied me there. I thought they would stand guard inside my room, but they did not. However, when I tried the door, it wouldn't open. I didn't know that could be done with hotel room doors. Maybe it was some secret feature of the electronic locks now common. Or maybe they'd just stuck a wedge into the door. I was hardly surprised to find that the phone was disconnected. Whom was I going to call, anyway? Surely not the law. I didn't know any friends with half a million bucks who could rescue me, either. Nor any bankers; if I'd had bankers willing to lend me that kind of money, I'd still be in Altoona. I was too nervous to sleep. I flicked on the television, which did work, but if anyone had asked me later what I'd been watching, I couldn't have told them whether it had been an adult movie or the Weather Channel. Shortly before 4:00 there was a knock on the door, which then opened before I could invite anyone in. Jim and Mike stood there. "Time to go. You ready?" Jim said. So at least one of them could speak! "I guess. Am I dressed OK?" Job interviews, even compulsory ones, usually demanded a suit, and I didn't have a jacket on at the moment. "Mr. B don't care what you're wearing for this," Jim said. So I walked toward the door and followed Jim down the hall, with Mike behind me. As if just one of them wouldn't have been enough to make short work of a skinny 5'9" guy like me. We got into the elevator and Mike pressed "PH" after inserting a keycard in a slot above the top row of floor buttons. We rode up in silence. On the penthouse floor, we got out and turned right. Signs indicated that the Presidential and Monarch suites were to the left, but the right was just a service corridor, apparently. Mike knocked on the nondescript door at the end of the corridor and stepped back. The door opened and a large man in old-fashioned livery asked, "Mr. Marsh?" "Yes," I said. "Please come in." I expected to be followed by Jim and Mike, but they had already disappeared from behind me. I didn't have much choice at this point; I could not have gotten onto the elevator without one of those key cards. So I walked in, and followed the butler into the living room of an enormous suite, heavily decorated, if not in especially good taste, unless good taste had become loud, garish colors this year. Heavily upholstered furniture was everywhere, along with a grand piano, and a full bar along one wall of the room. An archway led to a formal dining room, with other rooms barely visible beyond, and there were numerous other doorways, all closed. The carpet was a bright lime green and very thick underfoot, although it was not wall-to-wall; a parquet floor showed around its edges and one area was left bare, probably as a dance floor. In the room stood a man a bit shorter and definitely older and stouter than me, wearing an expensive-looking dark suit and holding a very large unlit cigar. He was mostly bald and somewhat red in the face. He stuck out his hand to me as the butler vanished. "Mr. Marsh? I'm Phil Bonifaccio, resident general manager of the San Felice Hotel and Casino. I'm also Executive VP of San Felice Entertainment, so what I say, goes. Ray tells me you have accepted our very special offer to work here." His accent was definitely large east coast city. "Yes," I said, "it was hardly an offer I could refuse." He neither smiled nor flinched. "I'm afraid I've heard that line too many times, Mr. Marsh." He proceeded to snip the end of the cigar and go through the process of lighting it while I stood there. At last he had it going. "Sit down, Mr. Marsh, and let's talk a little business." I picked a spot on the sofa, while he took a large easy chair. "What kind of business? What can I do?" I said. "I'm flat busted." "Not for much longer," he said, and then, in his first sign of emotion, he began to laugh uproariously, although I couldn't see the joke. After half a minute or so, he subsided and returned to his deadpan look. "Let me tell you some history. My grandfather, Angelo Bonifaccio, founded San Felice Entertainment, but originally it was a small restaurant in the lower part of New York City. What they call Little Italy, of course. When he came to this country, he had nothing, but he took work as a busboy and then a waiter. Eventually, he made enough money to buy his own place. He named it Ristorante San Felice because he liked the saints, and he especially liked San Felice. 'Felice' means happy in Italiano, you know." "Yes," I said. "Angelo was a happy man. He wanted to make other people happy, too, and he was a good enough cook to do that. He made a lot of money in the restaurant business, making people happy with vitello alla piccata and linguini and cannelloni, so much money he wanted to expand. But in those days, you just couldn't become a big business, if you were an Italian immigrant, without dealing directly with... certain people. So Angelo acquired some... partners who helped him expand to Brooklyn and then Philadelphia and Boston. It was about that time that there were signs that Vegas was going to be big, and my father was by then old enough to get into the business with his father. So they arranged to open a hotel and casino here. All the time, we make people happy with good food, good entertainment, good rooms. Making people happy is what San Felice is about." "Go on." "I'm afraid you have made us very UNhappy. I had to tell my father, Vito, who is now the CEO of San Felice, how much money you had cost us, and he was very unhappy. I don't like to see my father unhappy, Mr. Marsh. My papa, he is getting on in years, and he means a lot to me. I want to make him happy again. How can I do this, I ask myself? But I remember this has happened before. And thanks to some interesting recipes my grandmama brought from the old country, I know how." "Recipes? So you want me to work as a _cook_?" He laughed. "Oh no. You will not spend much time in the kitchen. They are not that kind of recipe." "OK," I said, "now I'm completely confused again." He pressed a button on a small box next to the sofa, and the butler appeared. "I think it is time to celebrate Mr. Marsh joining our staff. Bring in the Champagne -- you know, the special cuvee for our new employees." The butler stalked off. "Anyway, as I was saying, we at San Felice like people to be happy, especially our most valued guests. Many foreigners come here to get away from their less enjoyable, shall we say, countries. Countries where gambling, or drinking, or fine food, or beautiful women cannot easily be enjoyed. Often, they have... special tastes, special desires, beyond what is provided to everyone downstairs in our casinos, restaurants, lounges, and theatres. We like to be able to make them happy by catering to their special needs." The butler appeared with a bottle of -- could it really be Dom Perignon? I supposed so; obviously to the Bonifaccios, money was meant to be thrown around. I wasn't going to turn down the chance to try it. There was only one glass, which the butler filled. "You aren't having any?" "Alas," Mr. Bonifaccio said. "My doctor allows me only so much alcohol per day, and I must save my quota for the party tonight." I drank up and had my flute immediately refilled. It was as marvelous as I'd always heard. "But you still haven't told me what my job here is supposed to be." "I haven't? Oh, yes. I have not gotten to the details. But I will leave that to your supervisor. In the broadest general sense, you will help make people happy. Very Important People. People who spend millions here." "You mean you want me to work the hospitality side of the business. Find out what guests need and take care of it? Like a concierge?" That didn't seem so bad; concierges had considerable prestige in the hospitality industry, although they were usually people with considerable inside experience. "Won't I need some kind of training program to do that? Don't concierges have to have enormous files of contacts and such?" I finished my glass, which Mr. Bonifaccio refilled, the butler having disappeared again. "Oh, no, no!" He laughed. "Not a concierge. Much more direct service. And very little experience is needed, so long as you have the right equipment for the job!" He laughed much louder and longer. Or it seemed that way -- the Champagne was beginning to affect me. After only three glasses and a big lunch? But it was so good, I didn't care if I got tipsy. I found myself joining in the laughing, even though I wasn't sure what the joke was. "No," he said, "you will start tonight. There will be a private party here, as I mentioned, and you are going to help entertain the guests. Most of them don't speak very much English, but you will find that won't matter at all. Have you ever been to one of our famous 'private' Vegas parties?" "No, I don't shink... think so," I slurred. Definitely too much Champagne, but my glass was full again. "Oh, that's too bad," he said. "If your line of credit had been justified, rather than fraudulent, you would certainly have been invited up as a guest for this one, instead of being on the staff. All the big casinos have them. Extravagant food -- foie gras, lobster, caviar, the freshest tuna for the sushi, sauce perigueux for the filet mignon, just as you enjoyed this noon. Unlimited fine whiskey, although I see you really prefer Champagne." He refilled the glass again, and I drained half before he even set the bottle down. "And there are women at our parties. Las Vegas is famous for beautiful women. Oh, sure, you can go to Venice Beach and see some good-looking ladies. Strictly amateur talent. We have the best -- and better yet, we don't have a dress code." He laughed, and I again joined in, as it seemed the thing to do. "More precisely, we have an UNdress code. Just like our stage shows downstairs. Only better. You'll see." "Sho... sho... so you shtill haven't... haven't told me what I gotta do at thish party. An' anyway, I dunno if I'm gonna be shober by then." "Don't worry about it, Mr. Marsh. You are already well on your way to being prepared for tonight's party. Here, finish the last of this excellent Champagne. It wouldn't do to let it go to waste, especially since it was opened just for you. My grandmama's private stock." He filled my glass again. I couldn't help emptying it. His grandmama's private stock? Did that have something to do with her recipes he'd mentioned? I found it too hard to think about. Must be really drunk. At that point, the room started to spin around me. "I think I'm gonna be sick," I said, and tried to stand up. "Nonsense," Mr. Bonifaccio said. "You just need to lie down for a bit." He pressed the button for the butler. "Henry will take care of you. See you at eleven tonight." The room continued to spin and then began to recede as it spun, down a dark tunnel, farther and farther away. I felt the butler catch me as I passed out. * * * When I woke up, I was lying on a bed. I could remember having too much Champagne and talking about a job entertaining important guests. But I still had no idea of what I was supposed to do. And I still felt very drunk. I looked around the room without getting up; it was just an ordinary hotel bedroom, as far as I could see. But everything had that wrong-end-of-the-binoculars appearance, like the tunnel vision just before I had passed out. In this case, though, it didn't feel like I was about to lose consciousness, only that I wasn't really in touch with the world. Like I'd been wrapped in layers of cotton candy. Everything seemed wrong. I shook my head to try to clear it. If it really was almost 11 pm, I'd had more than five hours after my 'interview' with Mr. Bonifaccio to sober up. I shouldn't still be smashed. Had there been something else in the Champagne? Why a drug, when they had a thug. I giggled at that, and my voice didn't even sound right. It was so hard to think with the buzz in my head. I stopped trying and just lay there. Apparently someone had heard me giggling, because the door flew open and a woman walked in. She was dressed entirely in black, including long black gloves, except for a gold necklace with an ivory key on it. She seemed to be in her forties and had a stern look on her face. "I see you are finally awake," she said bluntly. "It's about time. The party's already started, but the most important guests are always late, fortunately. I'm glad we were able to get you mostly dressed while you were out." Had a woman been taking off my clothes and putting on others while I was unconscious? I felt vaguely offended, but it was just too hard to think any more. "Get up," she said. The easiest thing to do was follow orders. I believe if she'd told me to jump from the balcony, I'd have done it. I felt so fuzzy that I just couldn't imagine doing anything but what I was told; thinking for myself was just beyond imagining. I got out of bed and stood up. My feet were very wobbly. Even standing up didn't seem right. "Here. Put this on. We couldn't get you into it while you were lying down." She gave me something, but my eyes wouldn't really focus on it. It seemed large and fluffy. Would I have worn that? What was it? It didn't matter. I let her show me what to do. "Let's go. People are waiting. The party's this way." She took my arm and guided me to the door. I hadn't thought she was very tall when I first saw her, but my head only came up to her shoulder. I was just so confused. Walking seemed just as strange as everything else had been since I woke up; it felt almost like I was tiptoeing out of the room, but that wasn't right. Why would I have done that? I heard the sounds of a crowd from down the hall and was led into the large salon where I'd met Mr. Bonifaccio. There were lots of people there, many in evening clothes, some in uniforms, including the butler from this afternoon, and a number of pretty girls who were barely wearing anything, mostly blondes but a few readheads and one or two brunettes. Mr. Bonifaccio had been right about the UNdress code. They were all incredibly stacked and were all wearing similar outfits: A sort of blouse with long chiffon sleeves but which ended above their enormous breasts, leaving them bare, along with their midriffs. A thong bikini bottom decorated in sequins. A sort of chiffon skirt, through which their buttocks, also left bare by the bikini bottom, could easily be seen. Some had shiny vinyl boots to mid thigh with built-up soles and huge spiky heels; others were wearing fishnet hose, held up by garter belts, and similar high spike heels (although not so high, without the high sole). I stopped where she'd let go of my arm. The noise, smoke, and crowd only added to my befuddled state. She leaned down and spoke directly into my ear: "Smile. Laugh. Circulate. Don't get into conversations. Don't eat or drink anything unless the person you're with is doing so. I'll come back and make sure you know what you are supposed to do." I smiled at her and laughed, which didn't sound like me any more than my earlier giggle had. She nodded, and I set off across the room. If I hadn't been so drunk, or whatever, the job would have been easy. But just walking around the party was taking almost more attention than I had. As I'd been ordered, I kept smiling at everyone as I went. A couple of the guests stopped me to talk. Although I had understood the woman in black perfectly, I couldn't seem to make sense of what they said. Maybe because she'd told me not to get into conversations? So I just smiled and nodded and laughed when it seemed appropriate and went back to circulating. It was a jovial crowd; several of the men wanted to slap me on the back after I'd laughed at their jokes, if they were jokes, but they'd been drinking and their slaps or pats landed a lot lower than my back. Or maybe they were just football players and fanny-patting was their regular approach. The first few times I thought it should have bothered me, but it seems one can become accustomed to almost anything, at least if one is drunk. I really wanted to get better acquainted with one of those enormously- endowed, incredibly beautiful women, but they were hired help, like me. They were doing pretty much what I was doing -- circulating and entertaining the guests. I figured there'd be time for them after the party was over. However, I got to the far side of the room and saw one of the hired girls who seemed to be looking right at me. I smiled at her, just as she smiled at me. We were obviously on the same wavelength, because she started toward me just as I began walking toward her. She was a real vision. Lots of fluffy blonde hair, cute face, tiny waist, slender legs. And those enormous breasts! As big and round as basketballs. Tan all over from topless sunbathing. Everything I'd ever dreamed of since I was twelve or thirteen. I was going to ask her to meet me after the party, but before I could say anything, I bumped into the window separating that part of the party from the one I was in. She looked just as surprised as I was. I hadn't realized that there was more than one room to the party. We both looked around but couldn't see how to get to the next room from where we were. Just thinking about it was getting too hard for me. I shrugged, and she shrugged, and we both walked away, although when I looked over my shoulder to wave, she was doing the same. Something deep in my brain was trying to tell me something about her, or the wall, or something, but I just couldn't pay attention to it. Too hard to think any more. Just then, a set of chimes sounded and the room quieted down. I heard Mr. Bonifaccio announce, "Mr. Katamura has arrived. Let's welcome him." There was brief applause. Despite my strange, remote vision, I observed a small party of Japanese men in black suits at the entrance of the room. The quiet lasted a few more moments before conversations again broke out. I returned to circulating, smiling, and laughing. I was even offered some of the pate by one gentleman, who wanted to be very friendly and even help me eat it. That was strange. But the woman who was next to him elbowed him, and he stopped. I couldn't make any sense of what was going on at this party, especially since my hearing was so selective. About half an hour after Mr. Katamura was announced, the woman in black took my elbow and said, "Come this way." I did as she ordered, and followed her over to the cluster of Japanese men and Mr. Bonifaccio. Most of the hired girls were there, too. Mr. Bonifaccio turned to us and said, "Ah, thank you, Rowena. Mr. Katamura always appreciates a new face." One of the Japanese whispered something to the man in the center of the crowd, who smiled and said something back. The translator repeated in English, "Mr. Katamura is indeed pleased with your new acquisition." Mr. Katamura said something else, and the translator continued, "He would like to see this new one perform with the tall one." Mr. Katamura gestured toward one of the girls, a tall blonde, who then stepped forward. "An excellent choice," Mr. Bonifaccio said. "I'm sure that Mr. Katamura will be pleased with the performance. San Felice guarantees that its guests will be happy with its service. Enjoy the party, and we will prepare for your entertainment." "Come with me," ordered Rowena. The tall girl and I (I'd always thought of myself as tall, but she towered over me... I couldn't puzzle it out) followed her at once. I could imagine no alternative but to obey. Rowena ushered us into an odd kind of room. It was still hard to think, but I couldn't recall ever seeing a room with a bed set up as sort of a stage, surrounded by chairs, some on built-in risers. Over the bed and on many of the walls were large mirrors. What kind of entertainment was possible in a room like this? Rowena continued, "In about half an hour, Mr. Katamura and his executives will be coming in. You two are going to entertain them by making love while he watches. It should be about two or three hours before he gets tired and leaves. I'll be back for you when he does." The tall girl simply nodded. "Can't," I said. It was all I could get out at once. I really hadn't said anything in hours and my voice sounded all strange. Not hoarse, but high and breathy. I tried to clear my throat. "Can't _what_?" Rowena said, with a menacing tone. "While... someone... watches," I managed to get out through the fog I was in. She frowned deeper. "I suppose you need specific instructions." She grabbed me and pointed me directly at the tall blonde. "This is the most desirable woman you have ever seen," she said firmly in a low voice, emphasizing almost every word. "You want to have sex with her endlessly. It does not matter if anyone is watching you. In fact, having people watch excites you. You enjoy it much more if you can show off. You are a total exhibitionist, alone and with her." She continued to speak to me, but a moment of complete blackness washed over me, replacing the haze of intoxication, and I had no idea of what else she said. Then the blackout was gone, and I could only think of how true her words were. I couldn't wait until Mr. Katamura and his friends came to watch me. Nor could I remove my eyes from the woman in front of me, who was being likewise instructed by Rowena, in terms which I couldn't quite hear. I saw the tall girl's eyes go blank and then light up as she saw me. She reached out toward me just as I started toward her, marveling at how her immense, lush breasts were exactly at the level of my face. Tall was the perfect height for her. She was perfect in every way, in fact. But just then, Rowena said sharply, "Stop! Save it for Mr. Katamura." We both paused. And then stood there, breathing, or rather panting rapidly but shallowly, within arm's reach, but unable to move. It could have been ten minutes or half an hour before the door opened. I was too hazy to know or care. I spent the time thinking about what I was going to do when I got close enough to those magnificent breasts. A babble of Japanese voices arose when the door burst open, and from an apparent great distance I heard Rowena getting them seated in proper protocol order and then taking drink orders. Once the drinks were served, Rowena walked over and said, "OK, girls, go ahead and have fun." Moments later, we were on the bed. I buried my face between her breasts and began rubbing her nipples. I felt her removing some of my clothes -- I couldn't have said what, because that felt very strange - - and then her hands were on my butt. I could hear the Japanese whistling and making loud remarks. I tweaked her nipples hard; she moaned and then moved her hand between my legs, which felt even stranger -- but I didn't want her to stop. Then things got really hazy; I couldn't remember anything in detail beyond a whole bunch of orgasms. It was like no sexual experience I'd ever had before. We must have fallen asleep afterwards; the 'performance' could have been an hour, or ten times that; all sense of time disappeared during it. I woke up to morning light streaming around the closed drapes, still feeling like I was drunk. I couldn't remember drinking so much last night that I wouldn't have sobered up by morning, but just trying to think clearly about it was too hard. I was snuggled up to the tall girl's huge chest pillows, and there was nowhere else I would rather have been. I began giving them some attention, and she soon woke up and began to reciprocate enthusiastically. The day continued much as it had started. Sex, repeatedly, in a mental fog. Somewhere in there, I vaguely recalled eating, showering, and such, but the only specific memory I had at the time was of Rowena coming in and telling us to wait until they changed tapes. We were on tape? I wanted so much for people to see me, and that was almost as good as a live audience. That day was followed by a succession of similar ones, with only slight variations. Some evenings, we would get dressed, and as I had done on my first night, go to a party for customers in the penthouse. Once or twice I caught sight of the girl I'd seen the first night, always in the same place as the first time, but we never seemed to be able to get together. It was hard to leave the tall girl's side and circulate; she wanted to keep hold of me, too, but Rowena was insistent. There was no disobeying her commands. If she'd told me to clean the toilets, I'm sure I would have been doing that without saying a contrary word. Several more times we 'performed' for Mr. Katamura and his group. The number attending grew, and they were noisily appreciative each time, especially as more drinks were served. I was so glad I was making San Felice customers happy. I wondered how long it would take to pay off my debt, if I was doing well. But it was really hard to talk through the constant fog, and the tall girl almost always had her hands on me, distracting my thinking, anyway. She was very good with her hands... * * * I couldn't have said how many days had passed since my employment with San Felice began, but one afternoon -- I think it was afternoon -- Rowena, dressed as always in black, came into the bedroom/stage and ordered, "Come with me." We slipped out of bed and followed immediately, arms still around each other. She led us into the main penthouse living room, where the parties were held. Mr. Bonifaccio was sitting in the armchair around the coffee table. "Sit down," she said, and we started to comply, heading for the leather couch. "No, wait!" she commanded, and we stopped while she unfolded a towel and put it down to protect the leather from two naked bodies. Then she told us again to sit. "Well," said Bonifaccio, "I have to say I am both pleased and regretful. Mr. Katamura has been so gratified with your performance that he has offered to buy out both of your employment contracts with San Felice Entertainment -- at a substantial premium, I might add, too much to reject. I'm disappointed to lose you after so short a stay, but I am first of all a businessman, and I can hardly turn down such an enormous profit for so brief a period." Most of what he was saying failed to penetrate the haze in my head, but I did get the idea I didn't work here any more. "Mr. Katamura has completed his business and vacation here, and is returning to Japan this evening. You will be accompanying him and his entourage." Something bothered me about this; I couldn't remember having a passport, and one didn't just sell people and ship them around, not in this day and age. Did one? I couldn't hold onto the thought, especially since the tall girl was running her hand up and down the inside of my thigh. "Rowena will see to the packing of your effects and will call for you when it is time to go. Have fun in Japan." He winked, but it didn't seem like a joke. Rowena conducted us back to the bedroom/stage and told us they wanted to make one last tape, and to make it a good one. We set about complying. A few people bustled about the closet at one point, packing various items of clothing, but otherwise, our afternoon was like most of the ones that had preceded it for the last... week? fortnight? month? Never mind. It had been dark for several hours outside -- inside, the lights were full on to support the camera -- when Rowena returned. "Come on, it's time to go." She led us down a different corner to a freight elevator with keycard protection. "Mr. Katamura is already waiting for you downstairs. I'll see you to his limousine, and then you are his." She ordered us into the elevator and pressed the bottommost button, taking us to the loading dock area under the casino. The limousine was there, a stretch model with darkened windows. As we left the elevator and walked toward it, Rowena leaned over and spoke sharply: "You will obey Mr. Katamura as you would obey me." Then she was gone. A uniformed chauffeur was holding open a back door for us. He looked us over and said something in Japanese, laughing as he did. One of Mr. Katamura's aides spoke sharply to him, and he stopped laughing immediately and bowed to the man. Then he bowed to us, and showed us into the car. The seats were very comfortable. Everyone seemed to be looking at us; it was good to have an audience. I began caressing her breasts, and soon we were in full cry again. I don't know what the driver heard, but he couldn't see into the back through the partition. Otherwise we might well have crashed. It was a long ride; evidently we were not flying out of McCarran. The windows were dark enough that it was hard to see much out of them, so I had no idea of where we were going. Not that much concern over that could penetrate my mental haze. Once in awhile, I wondered how I could stay drunk for so long without getting dangerously ill, but keeping that or any train of thought going for more than a few moments was impossible. We finally reached whatever airport we had been driving toward, and the car stopped. The chauffeur opened the door; we were parked at the foot of a staircase leading to the door of a good-sized private jet. We climbed the stairs and went in. One of Katamura's aides showed us to a pair of seats in the middle of the plane, sat us down, and belted us in. The tall girl jiggled the armrest and then folded it up out of the way, so there was nothing between us. Then she reached over and began caressing me; I did the same to her. I didn't notice the door closing or the plane taxiing, but take-off got my attention briefly. Then it was back to sex with the tall girl, at least as much as was possible fastened into airplane seats. The Katamura entourage was pleased by the show, evidently. Soon thereafter, we reached cruising altitude, and the cabin pressure setting well above sea level, along with the late hour, thickened my mental haze, and I soon dropped off to sleep. I recalled only landing to refuel and waking up twice for sex with the tall girl. Being drunk, or whatever I was, the pressurized cabin's effective altitude of seven thousand feet makes one tire and drift off easily. Eventually, we landed, somewhere in Japan I supposed. Another private airport, with none of the bustle that would have been present at Narita or some other commercial destination. It was the middle of the night again as we trooped down the stairs and into another waiting limousine for another long ride through darkness. The limo reached a city -- there was no way I could tell which, not being able to read the tiniest bit of Japanese -- and pulled up to a huge office building. A garage door rolled up, revealing another loading dock, and the limo pulled in. The door rolled down behind us, and the limo came to a stop. One of the aides told us to get out and come with him. We rode a freight elevator to an upper floor and then switched to a private keyed elevator to the penthouse. The top floor didn't look like a business office; those were apparently on floors just below. Instead, it was living quarters or a set of them. We were shown into one suite and told to stay there until we were called for. Left alone, with no other orders, we always ended up having sex until we were exhausted. So we did. All that was missing was an audience. We woke up the next morning and started over, interrupted by meals. I'd never been particularly fond of Japanese food, but when the aide said, "Eat it," I couldn't help but comply. Around mid-afternoon, some trunks were delivered to the room, but there were no other interruptions. On the second day, three women came through the door to open the trunks and fill the closets with their contents, which were clothes sent with us from Las Vegas. None of it seemed like anything I would expect to wear, but I could hardly worry about that; the mental haze was just too thick. Besides, if I didn't have any clothes, people could see me better. I liked that. We tried to get the women to pay attention to us, but they finished their work and left immediately. It was well into the evening when another woman, dressed in red, came in. "Mr. Yujomi, our executive director, has out-of-town guests today. You will entertain them. Get up and stand over here, while I dress you." There was no thought of doing anything else. I stood there in my fog while she fussed about the tall girl and then me. Then she led us out of the room and down the hall to a large room, which was occupied by a dozen or more Japanese men in dark suits, but no women. Several noisy conversations were going on. "Smile. Laugh. Circulate. Don't try to converse. Don't drink or eat. And never, never look anyone in the eyes." Just like the parties in Las Vegas, except for the last. Also like Vegas, there was a bed on a platform at one end of the room. I wanted to try it, but I was already under other orders. It was much like Mr. Katamura's parties in Vegas, but without women as guests and with a lot more drinking. Also touching and feeling. These men were strange if they wanted their hands all over me. Weren't they? It was so hard to think about that. Finally, the woman in red appeared and gave the tall girl and me the go-ahead, as a loudly appreciative audience assembled around the bed. The next few weeks, or it could have been months, passed similarly. Four or five nights a week, we would 'entertain' for Mr. Katamura or one of his executives, always under supervision by the woman in the red dress. I drifted in a daze, following orders when I had any. Thinking of almost nothing but sex with the tall girl when there were no orders. * * * And then, one morning, I woke up stone cold sober. I'd almost forgotten what it was like. My mind was completely clear. I knew who I was, where I was -- well, at least to being in some major city in Japan, and what I'd been doing as an employee first of San Felice and then of Katamura Enterprises (or whatever the Japanese name was). Or I thought I knew. The first thing I had to do was assess the situation and figure out if there was a way to escape from having been sold into what was essentially slavery. I was snuggled up close to the tall girl's immense breasts when I woke, which was nice. I didn't want to disturb her, so I moved back and sat up. That gave me the strange sensation of a huge weight attached to my chest. I looked down. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I've got breasts!" I managed to keep my voice down, but the shock ripped an unaccustomed profanity from me. I slid out of bed rapidly and walked across the room to a full-length mirror which I had somehow never noticed before. Staring back at me from the mirror was a very pretty blonde girl. I estimated my height as no more than five feet. The 'tall' girl was probably only a few inches above average; it was I who was short. And petite. Except for the enormous breasts, probably about the same size as the tall girl's, but on my tiny frame they looked impossibly huge. Now I got Bonifaccio's joke about my not being "flat busted" for much longer. I hefted them and felt a surge of lust go through me as I touched them. I quickly stopped doing that before I got distracted. The girl in the mirror looked oddly familiar. Then I remembered the party nights in Las Vegas. The girl I'd seen there. Of course. It had been a mirror, not a glass partition or tv screen or some such. But the drug -- obviously, it hadn't been alcohol all this time -- had kept me from recognizing it as a mirror... just as it had kept me from noticing that I'd been somehow turned into a woman. How had they done it? It couldn't have been surgery. That took weeks to recuperate from. Had I been unconscious all that time? No, that was impossible anyway, because surgery wouldn't account for my being some eight inches shorter. There was no way they could do THAT with surgery. Bonifaccio had said something about his grandmother's special recipe. Could there be a drug or potion or something that would do this? That seemed no more possible than surgery, except that the evidence was in the mirror in front of me. My mind was now racing so fast, I could hardly concentrate. How was I going to get out of this mess? Who would believe my story? Certainly the Japanese didn't realize that Bonifaccio was selling them women who had once been men. Had that fact become known, the Japanese would surely not have been interested in such women. Not that it mattered legally; they must have known that they were in any case breaking a large number of laws, slavery being as illegal in Japan as in the US. But perhaps it was easier to get away with in Japan, where big company money spoke louder than in the US and where executive suites were much less open than in America. In America, the top floor of an office building could not have contained a bedroom designed as a theatre. At least I didn't think so. I suddenly realized I had an urgent need to visit the bathroom; having handled that for so many weeks unconsciously, I had no trouble with the mechanics. I was just finishing up when I heard a scream from the bedroom, followed by an oath. "Jesus H. Fucking Christ! I've got tits!" she roared. Not too much of a roar, with a breathy soprano voice. I dashed in, making shushing sounds. "Keep it down. You want to let them know we're not drugged any more?" "Who the hell are you? And what the fuck have you done to me?" "You should know who I am," I replied. "You've had your hands all over me for weeks, now. And I haven't done anything to you." Well, yes, I had. Frequently. Just not what she meant by the phrase. "Stop shrieking and think for a moment." "Oh, yeah, yeah. I remember meeting you a couple of weeks after that Bonifaccio bastard made me come to work for him. You were the best looking woman I've ever seen. Still are. Jeeze. I'm not only a woman, I'm a fucking lesbian. Dammit." I should have known I wasn't the only one to fall afoul of the Bonifaccio system. "Who are you," I asked, "and how did you get involved with the San Felice crowd?" I started pacing back and forth while she sat up in the bed. I was aware of the need to have sex with her, but absent the drug, I was able to resist the urge, at least for awhile. Although my chest bouncing while I paced was definitely a distraction. "My name's Tim Jenkins... or was," she said. "I drive trucks. Or did, before I got turned into a fuck toy." "But you went gambling and got into too much debt, so..." "Naah," she said. "I hauled a lot of loads from Vegas to the East and back, all for hire by the San Felice outfit. One day, I noticed they hadn't sealed the truck when I left Philly, so I took a look in back. Let's say I figured that they wouldn't miss a little of the fancy jewelry and electronics. Let's say I figured wrong." "So when you got to Vegas -- " "I didn't even manage to leave town with the next load before some of Bonifaccio's goons asked me to go and see the manager. He made me sign a confession, told me it was an employment application, and that Mr. Bonifaccio would see me to explain my new job. He poured me too much of the best Scotch I've ever drunk. I passed out, and I feel like I haven't sobered up since. Until this morning." A somewhat familiar story, especially the ending. I quickly recounted my own circumstances. "Did he tell you about some recipe of his grandmother's from the old country?" "Yeah, yeah. I remember that now. It didn't seem to make sense. You think that's what did it?" "Yes. I'm sure that Grandma Bonifaccio, if that part was really true, had some kind of potion cooked up -- goodness knows why or how -- that could transform men into women, or maybe anyone into anything -- who knows. They dosed us with it." "And kept us drunk." "That wasn't liquor," I said. "I'm sure they've been giving us some kind of hypnotic drug. Notice how we've been docilely following orders for weeks?" "Yeah. So what happened? How come I don't feel drunk anymore?" "I don't know what happened. Maybe Bonifaccio only gave the Japanese so much of it. Maybe he gave them the recipe and they mixed it wrong this time. Maybe we were given one dose before we left Las Vegas and it only lasted -- what? -- six weeks? Six months? However long we've been under. What worries me is that they'll find out we aren't drugged any more and fix that before we can escape." "Escape? Like this? Or do you think if we could get some of Grandma's potion it could turn us back?" "How should I know? I don't think we dare find out, anyway. Do you want to get involved with the Bonifaccio bunch again?" "God, no. But that means I'm stuck with these tits." She started bouncing them up and down. I couldn't take my eyes off her massive breasts as she jiggled and waved them about. "Stop that! You're turning me on," I pleaded. "You're a fine one to talk. Prancing about with that cute, firm, irresistible ass of yours. I'm getting so horny watching you I can't stand it." Suddenly, she leapt from the bed, grabbed me, and hauled me back to the bed. She really was taller than average -- five-ten or maybe even six feet, I guessed, and a lot stronger than I was in my tiny body. In moments she had me on my back, her breasts in my face, and her hand between my legs. I began sucking one of her magnificent breasts and felt my own nipples getting hard. They felt huge. I reached down to feel one, and was astonished at how distended and hard it was, unlike her firm little buttons. Then I knew what I had to do with it, as the memory of the past few weeks or months became clearer. I thrust it into her pussy and began giving her the same as she was doing to me with her hands. I think they call it dove-fucking. Waves of pleasure washed over me as she bucked and moaned. We must have gone on like that for close to an hour before we collapsed, panting, onto the bed. "I've never had sex like that," she said. "Of course you have. We've been doing it exactly like that for weeks. Always the same way." "Oh, yeah. But I thought lesbians did 69." "I think that S.O.B. Katamura had specific preferences in what he wanted to see. I think that that bitch Rowena gave us very precise and detailed instructions about what to do to entertain him." "And we're still doing that? I thought the drug wore off." "Yeah, that puzzles me. Maybe we no longer have to obey immediate orders, but the orders that Rowena bitch gave us before our first 'performance' are like post-hypnotic suggestions. She didn't put a time limit on it, like orders that get carried out and are over." I thought for a moment. "You were disappointed when we were screwing because we didn't have an audience, right?" "Yeah," she said. "I have this intense desire to get out of here and walk around in a crowd without any clothes on, too." "Likewise. I think even if we get out of here, we're going to be in quite some difficulty. We're stuck with compulsions like exhibitionism and constant sex." "Can't we do something about that?" "I'll bet we'd have to be dosed up with the drug again to have the suggestions removed. We might have to get it from Bonifaccio. That's a big chance to take. We could end up back under the drug permanently. You want to go back to being a sex zombie?" She shuddered. "No way! But we're still slaves to those post-hap... post-chip... whatever... orders. I'm horny again." She began running her hand up and down the inside of my thigh. "Wait! Don't do that!" I exclaimed. "Stop! We've got to think! Before we run out of time!" But it was too late. An intense, irresistible sensation spread out from my crotch as she touched it. I pushed her over onto her back and gripped her breasts firmly, just as she did the same to my butt. We lost almost another whole hour that way. I'd awakened just after six by the clock, and it now well after eight, with breakfast (ugh! it would be seaweed, miso, and rice, with maybe a bit of broiled eel -- how had I been able to eat that stuff for weeks?) due at nine. That didn't give us much time at all. I finally got my breathing back to normal and said, "Look. Get over on that side of the bed, as far away from me as you can. Turn your back, so you don't look at me. I'll do the same. We've got to get some measure of self-control, or we'll never get out of here." "Yeah, yeah, yeah," she said. "Geeze. I never thought I could get enough screwing, and now I can do it a dozen times a day, and it still isn't enough. I never thought I'd be lucky enough to get my hands on an ass like yours..." "Don't even TALK about it," I shouted, as best as I could with my tiny girl's voice. Just hearing her say it had me wanting to snuggle my butt right up to her. I pushed the thought out of my mind as best I could and started considering how to escape from Katamura. "OK," I said. "If we can get out of this building and onto the street, we should be able to get away from them." "But how are we going to do that?" she said. "Look at the clothes we have. We'll have to go out bare-assed, except for one of those feather skirt things. And with our boobies bare, too." She paused and said, "Ooooh. Yeah! I really want to do it! All those people looking at me!" "Get a grip. This is not the time to get turned on." I was having trouble myself; thinking about being nude in front of hundreds of people was even better than the dozen or two we'd been performing for. I shook my head to clear it. "But won't we get arrested?" she argued. "That's the whole idea," I said. "We get arrested in public. Big sensation. Katamura may have a lot of money for bribes, but that only works in quiet situations. Make a huge public scene, and Katamura will cave. We talk about white slavery and such, and Katamura will lose face big time. They might pay some people off to avoid a major prosecution, but they certainly won't try to get us back. I don't know what the penalty is for public nudity in Japan, but it can't be more than a few days in the slammer. Maybe the American Embassy will get involved, if we put together a good story." "Yeah. I see. So we just gotta get out of here and into the crowd. How do we do that?" "I'm thinking about it," I said. "First, we get past breakfast. We'll have to act like we're still drugged. Can you do that?" "I think so." "Just don't say anything, don't do anything, unless they tell you. And don't, for heaven's sake, EAT anything. Or drink the tea, either. That's probably how they've been drugging us. Maybe they only had one bad batch of the drug, and breakfast will have a new dose that works." "Geeze. I hadn't thought of that." I heard steps in the hallway and shushed her. The door opened, and a waitress brought in a tray with the usual breakfast. "You eat now, missies," she said, in heavily accented English. I sat up on the edge of the bed and began going through the motions without swallowing. Fortunately, she left immediately rather than staying to watch us, so I didn't have to mime eating for more than a couple of spoonfuls of the miso soup. After the footsteps disappeared down the hallway, I resumed. "OK, we've got about three hours until lunch. They pick up the breakfast tray when they bring lunch, so we won't be interrupted. That gives us time to plan a getaway for this afternoon, long before any party might start for clients." "It gives us lots of time. Time for something else." I felt her grab me around the waist and pull me back onto the bed. "Oh, no! Can't you control yourself? We've got to get out of here." But my words had no effect. She was just too much bigger and stronger than me to resist. In seconds, she was rubbing my nipples and I felt them become almost unbearably hard. "Fuck me! Fuck me with your tits!" she demanded. I no longer could do anything but comply, as a red haze of lust enveloped me. It was about 10:30 when we were sated, at least temporarily. I lay there panting for the third time that day and said, "Would you go take a cold shower or something? We've got to stop screwing like rabbits long enough to concentrate on escape." "Oh, you're no fun," she pouted, but went off to the bathroom. I decided I was sweaty and sticky enough to benefit from a shower, too, when she was done. While she was gone, I was able to think more clearly. Everything in the office tower was in Japanese, but I remembered enough of our walks down the hall to the party room to recognize a Japanese 'exit' sign. In earthquake-prone Japan, I was dead certain that an exit door would not be locked, either. Our captors were certainly relying on the hypnotic drug to keep us docile, obedient, and restrained. I didn't think that even the door to our room was locked; I could recall the woman in the red dress just walking over to it and opening it. There would be several hours after lunch when no one would check on us. We wouldn't be missed until it was too late, as long as we didn't run into anyone. After my turn in the shower, I outlined my plan. "Here's what we're going to do. After they bring lunch, we get dressed as much as possible. The party outfits, I think, should do. Then we have to make it from our room, down the hall, to the emergency exit." "Where's that?" "Don't worry. I know. The biggest risk is that someone catches us in the hall. I don't really know what kind of traffic there is out there during the day. We'll just have to hope for some good luck. I don't think they begin getting ready for parties until after five o'clock, so we should be OK if we go before then." "Then what?" "We go down the emergency stairs. It's going to be a long way; I think we're at least fifty floors up, judgin