“London? When will you be back?”
“In a few weeks.” Clifton leaned forward and said, “Listen to me, dear boy. You have two more weeks here. Treat it like a school. Every night you’re up on that stage, I want you to figure out how you can be better. I’ve persuaded O’Hanlon and Rainger not to leave. They’re willing to work with you day and night. Use them. Landry will come back weekends to see how everything is going.”
“Right,” Toby said. “Thanks, Cliff.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Clifton Lawrence said casually. He pulled a small package from his pocket and handed it to Toby.
Inside was a pair of beautiful diamond cufflinks. They were in the shape of a star.
Whenever Toby had some free time, he relaxed around the large swimming pool at the back of the hotel. There were twenty-five girls in the show and there were always a dozen or so from the chorus line in bathing suits, sunning themselves. They appeared in the hot noon air like late-blooming flowers, one more beautiful than the next. Toby had never had trouble getting girls, but what happened to him now was a totally new experience. The showgirls had never heard of Toby Temple before, but his name was up in lights on the marquee. That was enough. He was a Star, and they fought each other for the privilege of going to bed with him.
The next two weeks were marvelous for Toby. He would wake up around noon, have breakfast in the dining room where he was kept busy signing autographs and then rehearse for an hour or two. Afterward, he would pick one or two of the long-legged beauties around the pool and they would go up to his suite for an afternoon romp in bed.
And Toby learned something new. Because of the skimpy costumes the girls wore, they had to get rid of their pubic hair. But they waxed it in such a way that only a curly strip of hair was left in the center of the mound, making the opening more available.
“It’s like an aphrodisiac,” one of the girls confided to Toby. “A few hours in a pair of tight pants and a girl becomes a raving nymphomaniac.”
Toby did not bother to learn any of their names. They were all “baby” or “honey,” and they became a marvelous, sensuous blur of thighs and lips and eager bodies.
During the final week of Toby’s engagement at the Oasis, he had a visitor. Toby had finished the first show and was in his dressing room, creaming off his makeup, when the dining room captain opened the door and said in hushed tones, “Mr. Al Caruso would like you to join his table.”
Al Caruso was one of the big names in Las Vegas. He owned one hotel outright, and it was rumored that he had points in two or three others. It was also rumored that he had mob connections, but that was no concern of Toby’s. What was important was that if Al Caruso liked him, Toby could get bookings in Las Vegas for the rest of his life. He hurriedly finished dressing and went into the dining room to meet Caruso.
Al Caruso was a short man in his fifties with gray hair, twinkling, soft brown eyes and a little paunch. He reminded Toby of a miniature Santa Claus. As Toby came up to the table, Caruso rose, held out his hand, smiled warmly and said, “Al Caruso. Just wanted to tell you what I think of you, Toby. Pull up a chair.”
There were two other men at Caruso’s table, dressed in dark suits. They were both burly, sipped Coca-Colas and did not say a word during the entire meeting. Toby never learned their names. Toby usually had his dinner after the first show. He was ravenous now, but Caruso had obviously just finished eating, and Toby did not want to appear to be more interested in food than in his meeting with the great man.
“I’m impressed with you, kid,” Caruso said. “Real impressed.” And he beamed at Toby with those mischievous brown eyes.
“Thanks, Mr. Caruso,” Toby said happily. “That means a lot to me.”