Mitch Corday’s office was a combination of den and office.
Its knotty pine paneling featured autographed pictures
of the top talent that had headlined the shows,
the floor was covered with a colorful Indian rug.
Comfortable looking chairs were scattered around the room,
a large desk was placed
so Corday could look out across the desert to the distant blue-black mountains.
He sat at the desk, his heel hooked on the corner,
watched the cottony white clouds that seemed to hang motionless
in the blue of the sky.
The harsh rock outlines of the mountains were softened by haze.
Corday wondered how the weather was back on State Street
and if he’d ever be able to live in Chicago again after once having lived in Vegas.
The last time he had been there,
the slush was ankle deep in the gutters,
the wind that came off the lake was cold,
cut through him like a knife.
Instead of the white clouds and the blue overhead,
it had been a dark, dreary day with the skies the color of lead
And yet there were times when he wished he had seen
the last of the super-modern pastel-colored buildings,
the neon lights,
the dry air and the blistering sun that spelled Vegas.
Some day he might go back East.
There were lots of the boys who never could –
who sat around at night and talked about the old days and the old places
with the sad knowledge that they were now out of bounds.
Nevada might be willing to overlook certain differences with the law.
But New York and Chicago and even Miami had long memories.
And the dry air, the monotony of the perfect weather,
the blistering sun and the wind that dried the perspiration on your body –
all of these were preferable to the even greater monotony
of Sing Sing or Joliet or Alcatraz.
As long as it had to be a prison, they preferred the gaudier one –
even though in time it might become just as confining.
Corday started at the knock on the door,
dropped his head from his desk, swiveled around.
“Come in.”
– Frank Kane –