Agent Nathaniel Putt arrived in Lukedom at 21.07 hours Tuesday evening, accompanied by Agent Robert Hayes. Two additional bureau men, Agents Rogers and Massiori, were due to arrive at 10.15 A.M. the following day. Putt had picked up his bureau car at the Wickstown airport at 18.36 hours and driven straight through to the guard gate with no more trouble than a broken right rear spring and dented right fender.
The gate guard, a middle-aged woman that evening, told him and Hayes that they had not known the password and, ten minutes later, that they both had badly failed the test. However, after making a phone call, she announced that since Putt was ‘cute’ she was waving them on in, nonchalantly recommending the Hazard Inn. She let Putt use her phone, and he called Macavoy and ordered him to meet them at the Hazard. Macavoy tried to protest, but Putt, exhausted from his flight and drive, curtly ordered him to be there.
Putt followed her directions and arrived at the Hazard at precisely the same moment that Macavoy came trotting up, gasping for breath. Putt had carefully prepared his identity: he was a Hollywood producer looking for shooting locations and agent Hayes was his go-fer, a role he had been practising for years. Putt parked their car on the empty street and handed his bag to Macavoy.
‘Nathan Tupper,’ he said to Macavoy. ‘Bob here is Rob Siffel. Who are you?’
‘Mac Voy,’ said Macavoy. ‘I’m looking for real-estate deals.’
‘Find any?’ asked Putt as they began to climb the stairs of the hotel. He looked doubtfully at the array of signs and then continued ahead of Macavoy up the stairs to the door.
The lobby wasn’t crowded, but the guests looked a little strange. Several seemed to be wearing costumes and the rest looked as if they were wearing someone else’s clothes.
Putt led his two men across the lobby and up to the desk. A distinguished man dressed in a tuxedo greeted him.
‘Uh, yes,’ said Putt. ‘We’d like two separate rooms, one preferably a suite.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the man. ‘We can’t give you a room until we know who you are.’
‘I’m Nathan Tupper,’ said Putt smoothly. ‘I’m a producer at Paramount out here looking for locations and –’
‘Oh, no, sir, I mean who the dice tell you to be today.’
‘Ahh,’ said Putt, pulling his arm away from Macavoy who was trying to pull him aside. ‘We’re only here as observers. Producers looking for locations.’
‘Certainly, Mr Tupper,’ said the distinguished man. ‘You’ll find your clothes over there in the outfitting room.’
‘No. no, no,’ said Putt. ‘Just some rooms.’
‘I’m afraid you have to report first to the outfitting room,’ said the man. ‘Regulations, you know.’
‘I warned you, sir,’ said Macavoy, lugging again at Putt’s sleeve as they moved off towards the outfitting room. ‘Everyone who comes to this hotel has to pretend to play the game.’
‘But for God’s sake –’
‘It has its advantages.’ said Macavoy insistently. ‘Even if you tried to tell people you’re an agent, no one will believe you – unless the dice tell them to pretend to.’
‘I’m not sure coming here for the night was such a good idea,’ mumbled Putt.
Twenty minutes later, after Putt and Hayes had changed into costumes and been assigned rooms, and the dice had ordered Hayes to pay $6.32 for his and Putt $128.88 for his, Macavoy led them away, carrying their bags. As they moved down the long wide hallway Putt stared uneasily at the signs over each of the innumerable doors: Love Room, Money Room, even a Master-Slave Room. Macavoy, speaking over his shoulder, soberly explained.
‘Along here are the playrooms – Therapy Room, Hate Room and so on. This Death Room, for example, is where people can go if they get killed or feel like having a funeral.’
Hayes hesitated next to the door marked ‘Love Room’ but then hurried on.
‘Or,’ continued Macavoy, ‘you can go into there and give a eulogy or be a mourner.’
‘For someone you don’t know?’ protested Putt.
‘That seems to be beside the point,’ Macavoy answered.
‘I’m not sure we should be staying here,’ said Putt again.
‘This is a good place for us, Nat,’ said Agent Hayes. ‘No matter how weird we are we’ll blend right in.’
Putt paused to glare back at him. Putt himself was now wearing light-fitting jeans, an open-necked silk shirt, and several gold chains and medallions down his bare chest. He looked like an elderly down-and-out pimp and wasn’t sure he liked Hayes’s comment.
A woman dressed skimpily in a tight low blouse, hot pants and high heels, and wearing an extravagant blonde wig and garish make-up, now came up to Putt.
‘Hi, big boy,’ she said. ‘Looking for some action?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Putt, growing a little red in the face.
‘Like to watch, huh?’ said the woman. ‘Well, it’ll cost a little extra, but –’
‘Macavoy!!’ shouted Putt.
Macavoy hurried back to his boss.
‘Uh, it’s Mr Voy, sir,’ said Macavoy. ‘Or Mac to my friends.’
‘Tell this woman I’m not here.’
‘Uh, look, baby, cool it,’ said Macavoy. ‘This is the famous Hollywood producer Nathan Tupper. You want a part in a picture then don’t hassle him.’
The woman widened her eyes and then licked her lips.
‘You do any X-rated?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Putt, pushing on by her.
‘Let me take your phone number, Miss,’ said Hayes quickly, ‘Might have a part for you.’
As the woman smiled and Hayes took her number, Putt and Macavoy continued down the hall. Putt glared at the walls, which now contained various proverbs inscribed in religious-looking script: ‘The Die is my shepherd, I shall not want’, ‘The Die giveth, the Die taketh away’, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord Chance’
Putt scowled.
After they had passed the Creativity Room, the Life Choices Room, the Mother-Son Room, and the Room Room, they passed a big tough-looking cop outside the Jail Room.
‘Good to see they have a jail and policemen around, anyway,’ said Putt.
Macavoy frowned.
‘Of course, in here those acting as cops aren’t really cops,’ he said.
‘They’re not!?’ said Putt.
‘Any real cops around here are probably dressed as jocks or pimps.’
When Macavoy became aware that he was staring at Putt’s outrageous get-up he flushed and moved on.