“What can I do ya for, then, my fare-skinned assembly-line workin friend?” The smile is back. This time it is wholly false and menacing. The hitchhiker is weighing how much, if any, of his spur-of-the-moment heist down at the old El Dorado he should run by Smokey. Anyone who knows anything about this unscrupulous character will also know his way of converting other people’s business into his own. Smokey can be considered the silent partner of all Las Vegas crime. Once he’s gotten windfall of it, even the most sophomoric of card-table scams, it’s as good as his. This club is not his, but he calls the shots as if it were his own; and both its patrons and employees revere him all the more for it.

Smokey is waiting, and not patiently. The tilted brim of his had accentuates the way he cocks his head in an irritated anticipation. His cane practically taps out the seconds against the ratty floor. The hitchhiker has to think fast. Holding everything from the man is sure to raise his suspicions. Regardless, won’t word of the heist get to him eventually? A complete omission will blow the entire operation, in the end. The hitchhiker relents and decides to feed Smokey just enough information to draw him in and make him feel useful. The hitchhiker collapses back, ridiculously, into the oversized chair and lets out with it.

“Y’know how I said I was passing through?”

Smokey nods in impatient agreement.

“Well, I’m only halfway there.” The hitchhiker pauses to read the black man. He is sitting on the edge of the dressing table. His face remains steadfast in concentration, as if it is considering the resonance of the hitchhiker’s words. Obviously, he does not feel this vague tidbit to be sufficient. He slams the cane and rises to his feet as an indication that the hitchhiker has only a matter of seconds to state his case.

“Damn it fool! I ain’t here to play riddles. Now you gonna spill what you got?”