In the distance, the Stardust Hotel looked like a Roman candle perpetually burning in one place. The sight drove him forward, his arms pumping as feverishly as the wings that carry a moth to neon. As he neared, the blazing colors began to resolve into the lights of the sign: Lido Show--Direct from Paris. Lower down it said, Starring Bobby Berosini's Orangutans. Not Bobby Berosini. But Bobby didn't mind. He'd made a fortune off monkeys that he trained to give him the finger. He even said so, right in the middle of his act: "I love ya', ya' little money maker," he told a chimp after it kicked him in the pants. When the monkey reached into the audience, grabbed someone's beer, then chuged it, people went nuts. But not near as nuts as they'd go if only they could hear the Dog talk: the perfect joke....

The perfect joke, pratfall and wit, mind and body.... Jimmy's chest was pounding good by the time he made it to the entrance. He staggered by a doorman, then turned to throw a "Ha!" in the Dog's face because it wasn't allowed in.

A Mile of Entertainment, said a sign and Jimmy moaned, realizing that he had to walk through all of it to get to his room. The casino was so vast that inside, its chandeliers and mirrors, the glow given off by the action made it look like a burning carnival. Gaming machines emitted the synthesized bleeps of a video arcade; the bleeps and cards and drinks and wheels created a din that was at times pierced by a hysteric shriek.

But the gamblers grew increasingly shabby as Jimmy wheezed past first the roulette tables, then card tables, then the dollar, quarter, dime and nickel slots. His breath returning to normal, he wove around a man on an aluminum walker and headed down a last, long corridor of penny slots. Finally he emerged out the back and into darkness and heat again.

 

There, he followed a gold line that had been painted on the asphalt. It led him to the wings of the hotel that had been designed like a motel: wrought-iron railings and open-air balconies exposed to the desert. On the ground floor, cars were parked outside the numbered rooms. His room was at the very end, back where the motel wing ended and the campground began. Jimmy averted his eyes to avoid the sight of the campers: the middle class, he shuddered. A sign on one of the trailers he'd seen said The Heyhoops of Mazomazo, WI: Doug, Little Doug, Sue and Chipmunk. Luau torches and green asphalt and American flags and cheeze-wiz and a glow of televisions. He concentrated on his shark-skin suit to keep the thought, 'My people,' from creeping into his mind as he labored up the wrought-iron steps.